Pauly Boy
by Reptilian Muse
Summary: Paul's story. Note: This fanfic. contains excessive bad laungauge, references to drugs, worship of Sixties music and vampirism. Complete
1. Would you?

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Lost Boys._

"Would you ever be a vampire, man? I mean, if you were given the choice?"

The joint was rolled too tightly. Lips pursed and tried to force air through the red-hot tip, though after a few good breaths and no smoke, the damn thing was flicked back down to the table in disgust. Malaki didn't seem to notice his dismay, he was already rolling a second and a third using even less of the precious herb than before. If there was one talent the kid had, it was making a dime bag last for over a month and Paul was sick of it. He'd hadn't had a good burn in days.

"You fucking roll these too goddamn tight. And there's not enough weed in them---let me try."

The joints were snatched up and unraveled. The kid was already stoned off his ass and put up little more than a scowl in Paul's direction before letting his eyes return to the black and white TV. It was their Sunday night ritual, the Late Show of thrills and chills from the fucking turn of the century when movies had just been invented and didn't even have sound or speech. Only creepy ass organs and piano's playing in the background as actors moved about the stage, using exaggerated movements that seemed even more ridiculous when smoking. He didn't really care for ghosts or badly comb-over, blood-sucking demons. Not when there were too many in real life.

"So would you?" asked Malaki, glancing away from the censored gore.

"Would I what?" The weed was sifted from all three joints and piled into one small, pitiful hill. They were running low these days.

"Would you become a vampire if given the choice?"

Eyes glanced up towards the set, taking in the black and white monster as he leaned over the flailing woman in white, staring deeply into her eyes and placing her into a trance before mouth found it's way to her neck and---

"Yea, it might be cool," he shrugged, looking away.

Malaki smirked from the couch, brushing a hand through long, tangled locks of black hair and resting his chin upon a pillow. "I think it'd be fucking awesome man. Turning into mist or a bat, scoring chicks and screwing with the locals, just to make them piss their pants. Fucking sweet."

The pile was spread onto a single paper and rolled gently beneath skilled fingers. Lips parted, licking the edges and tasting the sour herb before rolling it completely into a perfect cylinder. It didn't taste right. Malaki had complained that supplies were getting low since the cops had taken a stand against dealers on the Boardwalk. This shit was probably found on the side of a road.

Still, it was better than nothing.

"Well, if I ever become a vampire, I'll come back and turn you into one. Then maybe we could get some decent hash," said Paul, bringing the lighter up and lighting the tip once more.

"Or score once or twice," said Malaki, eyes glazing rapidly as he fell into the final stages of "completely stoned off his ass."

Depression… then falling asleep and leaving Paul to change the station to MTV and some decent music.

The footsteps were sudden, however, and the voice from the stares jarred the dark-haired kid from his trance.

"Malaki! Malaki, what's burning down there?"

"Oh fuck dude… my mom! Shit, put it out!" whispered as a can of air-freshener from the side of the couch was brought up and instantly sprayed around the room, attempting to disguise the smell.

Paul was slow to react. The last hit had made him dizzy and by the time he was stubbing the joint out upon the table, the woman was down the steps, staring in a combination of disbelief and horror.

"What the _hell _is he doing here?" she asked, without really expecting an answer.

Like Malaki she had long, dark hair and two black, threatening eyes that almost appeared like Dracula's on the TV. He would have said something if it hadn't been frozen in fear. The woman was a military wife, a single-mother while her husband was away attending to business as a General and with a hard knack for discipline, especially when it came to other people's children. Fuck, if she called him mom at this hour it would mean he'd be sleeping outside for the rest of the night.

Her gaze turned away sharply and met with Malaki's own. Like Paul, he was slow to react. Stumbling over the normal excuses of lighting incense and candles, trying to set the mood for the movie and "Christ, you're so fucking paranoid all the time!"

Paul didn't fear many things in this life, but one thing that always chilled him was the fact that his friend could say something so stupid to the charging bull. She was on him in an instant, slapping at his face and head, telling him to get upstairs to his room before turning that fiery gaze to him.

"And you… I don't ever want to see you around here again, you piece of filth. If I catch you within twenty feet of this house, I'm calling the cops!"

The joint was still clutched in a sweaty palm as he rushed for the stairs and fled out the backdoor. The night air was cool against his back, causing shudders to rush up his spine, though it might have been from the fact that he was still stunned from the woman's words. Not that he'd never been yelled at before, or called nasty names and had the cops threatened to be called. But the look on her face when she said it… as though she really meant every word. The woman that he'd known since he was five, inviting him into her house and fixing him and Malaki a sandwich while helping to sew up his torn jeans and jacket.

She'd looked at him as though he really were a monster.

Maybe he was.


	2. Halfbaked days

_BREAK ON THROUGH TO THE OTHERSIDE!_

The dusty speakers blared through the summer heat and the noise of a million electric fans all humming in union. Eleven in the morning and it was already eighty degrees outside, promising to be another fun-filled day of suffering in the shade of his trailer, unless he risked going back inside and drowning in the stench of his stepfather cooking slowly on the couch. For a man of two-hundred plus pounds who was constantly high on some kind of drug, he was sure slow to die off.

_BREAK ON THROUGH TO THE OTHERSIDE!_

He'd caught Paul sneaking in late last night after being thrown out by Malaki's mom and assumed that, because he was out of breath and covered in dirt, the kid was running from the cops and had, in fact, led them straight to the trailer. One of the few things the bastard feared in life, other than rattlesnakes and Paul's dead father, was being caught with a gram of cocaine in his sock drawer and enough heroine to supply the entire trailer park---which he did. The fight that ensued was, what Paul liked to call, a _one-hit wonder_: he was hit and it was a wonder that he survived with his head nearly going through the wall.

Teeth clenched as he gripped the wrench tighter and imagined it was the fucker's head he was twisting, rather than the lug nut on the front wheel.

_BREAK ON THROUGH TO THE OTHERSIDE----YEA!_

"WILL YOU TURN THAT SHIT DOWN!"

Eyes glanced up towards the torn, screen door, watching as the dark shape upon the sinking couch shifted and moved just enough to have fingers twitching and reaching for the Rock Box, turning the volume down a half-a-notch until he was assured that the bastard was only changing sides and then up another two just to spite him. The man was like a vampire himself, only seeming to move when night came and the heat tapered off just enough to become bearable. He would sit at the kitchen table, pinching sacks of cocaine and waiting for Paul's mother to finish cooking him his mandatory steak. Paul hated everything about him. But he hated his mother even more for putting up with his ass for so long and in the end, becoming just like him.

The shadow scared him as it came up from behind and a startled wrench almost flew straight into Malaki's face.

" Jesus!" he veered to the side and just in time to dodge the flying metal object as it clattered sharply with the wooden shed. "What the _fuck _dude?!"

Breath was caught in his throat and head immediately fell to his hands as he tried to clear his mind of the sudden shock. He'd honestly thought it was his step dad, faking him out with that movement on the couch just to sneak up from behind and put his head through another wall. "I'm sorry man, you fucking scared the shit out of me."

Hands remained on his face a moment longer than they should have, covering the swollen bruise around his cheek that had formed from last night. Despite the fact that he and Malaki had been friends since they were five, the kid had no real idea of what went on in the trailer; for eighteen years in Santa Carla, the kid was incredibly bleak.

And today he was dressed much like Paul in nothing more than a tattered pair of jeans, no shirt and a single band tying back those long, messy locks of black hair. The dark circles under his eyes had indicated the fight that ensued after Paul had fled and before he could ask---

"Hey man, I'm sorry about last night. She's just been so fucking tense lately since my dad has to stay another month at the airbase, helping to train new recruits and all. She didn't really mean that shit she said."

It was an excuse like Paul's own about his constant walking into doors or tripping downstairs, that was becoming less and less believable as the years went by. But then again, the woman had a right to be pissed since it _was _Paul that had introduced Malaki to the sweet pleasures of the green herb amongst other things that he had managed to steal from his stepfather when the bastard passed out. Kindness only went so far in this world and no "hand outs" were ever free.

"Nah, it's cool man. She had a right to be pissed since I probably marked up your coffee table and all that," he couldn't help but grin, seeing Malaki's face light up in remembrance.

"Fucking better than last time when you put the whole fucking joint in your mouth, still lit. God, that was so funny," he said, leaning over his bike.

"Hey fuck you man, that hurt like hell!" he said, this time purposely chucking a screwdriver at his friends head.

Like the wrench, it missed and slammed into the shed, leaving Malaki to rush from his bike and tackle Paul, wrestling him to the ground in a headlock he'd seen a few nights before on the WWF. For being the same size as Paul, not to mention a hard-core stoner who drank in the mornings and took trips on acid to the Boardwalk at night, the kid was much stronger than he appeared.

He tried to throw the kid over his back but the arm around his neck was too tight, brushing up against that bruise and causing Paul to cry out.

"Whoa! Jesus dude, what happened there?"

Paul pulled back just enough to rub his cheek and grin. "Your mom."

They collided again and this time, Paul managed to come out on top, forcing Malaki to the ground and those arms behind his back while a knee dug sharply into his spine. The surfboard.

"You fucker!" Snarled out as Paul laughed and rode the imaginary waves and slammed his body repeatedly against the ground.

"Oh shit, here comes another big one!" he laughed, pressing his knee tighter and jamming that chest back to the ground.

This time, neither would notice as the shadow approached them from behind.


	3. Maria Tequila

It was only appropriate that the song on the cassette player switched to L.A. Woman at the exact moment both boys turned to stare up at the silhouette form in front of them. Impossibly high and sexy heels leading into smooth, tanned legs that were covered sparingly by a black miniskirt stretched over curving hips. The top half was much of the same "material," a flaming red blouse that flowed over natural curves and two incredible breasts. If her face hadn't been so gorgeous, eyes might have remained locked to that chest in a helpless state of pure lust. But up higher craned a slender neck, red lips, high-cheeks and oval eyes, all drenched in a river of black, curling hair.

Maria Tequila, as Paul called her.

She was a Spanish woman, having grown up in America and changing her name a dozen times upon coming to Santa Carla, avoiding the "Johns" that just wouldn't leave her alone. A high-class prostitute (Paul would never call her a "whore") that often worked the upper ends of town where all the company major's spent their free time away from their trophy wives and searched for something a little more trashy. Or so the story went. What the woman truly did when she left the trailer park was her own business and often times Paul was conned into watching her son. Not that he totally minded, at least not for Maria.

Malaki was dropped against the ground and after a few more gaping moments, both would rise to their feet. The woman smiled and if one listened closely, two hearts would stop on the same beat.

"I'm sorry, am I interrupting?" she asked, brushing a dark curl off those slender shoulders.

"No," they spoke in union.

A strange look was passed towards the two of them before she laughed, sparking a sudden urge in Paul to laugh as well. Her eyes fell to the bike that stood motionless on cinder blocks at the back.

"Oh wow, is it almost done, Paul?" she asked, taking a few steps forward.

They nearly collided with each other again, attempting to make room for the woman to pass by, Malaki's eyes as big as dinner plates and Paul trying his best to put on a cool manner. Hell, even strut it a bit as he walked up to his bike and grinned.

"Almost. I gotta put the wheels back on and find out where there's a crack in my engine case. Keeps leaking oil and all that," he stated, idly picking up a misplaced screw; hopefully before she managed to see it.

"He's actually thinking about racing it down to the tracks past the strip. We're hoping to make some money and what not," Malaki put in.

A dark eyebrow raised as the woman glanced between the two of them, the word money had awfully positive effects on women around here and Paul cursed himself for having not said it first.

"Is that so? Drug money coming up a bit short these days, boys?" she asked.

Like it was any big secret (to anyone besides Malaki's mom), though both couldn't help but blush and shrug. Finally Paul managed "Yea, I guess. The shit we've been getting is little better than roadside weed."

"You should have said something, Paul. I'll gladly hook you up if you want." Dark lashes batted as fingers baring blood-red nails would tap lightly against the bike's handlebars before smoothing down over the seat.

He should have seen it coming, but the woman was skilled in her practice, especially when it came to drawing a person from the actual point.

"But it's kind of expensive."

The word was enough to cause a slight flinch in his shoulder and Malaki to blink and scratch his head idly.

"How expensive?" he asked, bracing himself.

Lips were curled back in a slight grimace as she thought, trying to figure prices in her head, adding the cost of her actually taking and delivering it to Paul. Not to mention the fees for using capital credit, otherwise known as IOU's.

"Well, it really depends on what you want. I can get you chronic, but the man who sells it isn't looking for a deal, if you know what I mean. His dime bags range from about twenty to twenty-five dollars," she said, watching as the two flinched in union and immediately came to their senses.

"Twenty-five for a _dime_? Christ, how does he get business?" Malaki asked.

"It's good shit, trust me," Maria said, leaning against the seat of that bike now and patting the handle bars. "And besides, if you're going to be racing and _winning_, money isn't going to be an issue."

It was a subtle strike, quick like a rattle snakes though deadly all the same to both Paul's and Malaki's pride. Sure, he would finish the bike. Race it. But win? He'd heard that competition was already fierce and that betting averages on the winners were around four-hundred a flag. His bike could start, but he hadn't actually driven it further than down the block and back. The woman's eyes were keen, sensing the doubt in their faces and lifting a single brow once more.

"Well, if you ever change your minds, you know where to find me," she leaned up and started walking away, though turning to stop right in front of Paul. "Though, if you want to make some money sooner, would you mind babysitting Laddie for me today?" Her smile was hopeful. Irresistible.

"Umm.. Yea. Sure, bring him over," he said, trying to ignore the mock whipping sounds coming from Malaki behind them.

"Thanks Paul, you're such a sweetheart," she said, leaning forward and placing those lips directly against his cheek.

The sounds stopped and in a few minutes were replaced by click of those silhouette heels.


	4. Laddie

"You know, she's right. If you were to race down at the tracks and get really good, we could ditch the Stevens brothers and all the other boardwalk sellers and get into some heavy shit," Malaki said, pacing back and forth while fiddling with a wrench.

"Why is the sky blue?"

He stopped in mid-pace, turning to look down at the kid who sat near Paul and the bike. "What?"

"The sky," he repeated. "Why is it blue?"

The kid was four, going on five and with a knack for asking the weirdest questions. And playing "pretend." On nice days, Paul would take him down to the beach to play the lost, blind boy looking for his older, sexier brother who had stopped off somewhere to get them ice-cream. Either that, or his puppy had just been killed and he was running away from home, only to be found by a group of cooing girls in their bikinis, stopping him just long enough for Paul to catch up and play the concerned sibling, taking care of his younger brother ever since their mother passed away and their father developed cancer. Most times it got him a slap in the face, though there were a few who had taken sympathy on Paul and Laddie… inviting them in for some "better" ice-cream.

Malaki couldn't understand why Paul went to such great lengths to tote the little twirp around, just because he had a crush on the kid's mother. Well… that part was relatively understandable. Rolling his eyes upwards, the wrench was tossed towards the ground and a shrug given.

"Because… it reflects off the ocean," he said.

The kid made a face. "Paul, is that true?"

"Of course it is," said Paul through grit teeth as he struggled to loosen a stubborn nut. "Why else would whales try to jump into it?"

Honestly, he had no fucking idea why the sky was blue, why the sun was yellow, or why this goddamn nut wouldn't budge. He'd dropped out of school in the seventh grade, reasoning that the teachers were right and education for him was a waste of their time and school funding. Whether or not he made it out on the streets with a mediocre amount of knowledge and history was none of their concern, it was only the lunches he would truly miss. And their selection of white or chocolate milk.

"Fuck man, think about it. Purple Haze, Chronic, Amber Jessie--hell, we could even go deeper. We could get the same kind of drugs Jim was on when he died," Malaki said, staring up now at the baby-blue sky and living for a moment in his dreams of being the ultimate stoner.

Paul shook his head, giving up on the nut and tossing the socket wrench aside. "No way, I'm never trying heroin. That's shit's nasty and there's no way to really quit it. We'll end up like those bums that live beneath the boardwalk, no teeth, gray hair growing out of our ears and face all scarred up because we're going crazy and want to feel that high again. Opium is the way to go, man."

The dark-haired teenager made a face, envisioning the long pipe that Paul had shown him, carved to look like a bamboo stick with a dragon crawling up it's side. The smell on the mouth piece was old and toxic--he had no idea where Paul had gotten it but every time he took a hit from it, he imagined at the very same moment, an old Chinese man licking his lips and inhaling the same, terrible smoke. He looked away. "Fuck Opium."

"Why are giraffe's necks so big?"

"What? Why the hell would you want to know that?" Malaki said, kicking the fallen wrench out of his path.

"Cause."

"Cause why?"

"Cause my preschool teacher says the more questions you ask, the smarter you'll be."

"Well, your preschool teacher is full of sh--"

"Fuck, Malaki, will you hold this?" Paul grunted, trying to keep his temper as he forced the socket wrench back into place. Christ, he must have put the nut on this tight for a reason, but he couldn't seem to remember why.

"My preschool teacher says that people who say questions are stupid, are in turn, stupid themselves."

"And what the fuck is that suppose to mean?"

"He just called you an idiot, now get over here and help me," Paul groaned, trying once again to force the handle of the wrench upwards.

"You little shit!"

He didn't need to turn around to guess at what was happening. Dirt was kicked up and the kid was screaming as his beloved action figure was stolen and his world was turned upside-down by Malaki who grabbed his ankle and held him in mid-air. Gritting his teeth and slamming down the wrench once more, Paul would turn to the comical sight and snarl.

"Fuck, Malaki he's just a kid---put him down! At least before someone calls the cops on us."

His friend considered this for a moment before dropping the kid back to the ground and flicking the toy at his head. "You better watch that smart mouth of yours, it's going to get you into a lot of trouble someday."

Wiping his nose with small, beet-red fists, tear streaked eyes would glance towards Paul who shot a glare towards Malaki and moved to pick up a rag and wipe the kid's face clean. Laddie was good at pretending, but not this good. Paul was suddenly filled with a sense of guilt and compassion. Though he hadn't been there for the majority of the kid's life, he was almost like a brother to him at times. Albeit an annoying one.

"C'mon, you can help me try to start this bitch. Fuck the leak."


	5. She Lives!

The engine hummed with something rattling inside the casing, giving the illusion that the whole thing was destined to fall off as soon as they got going. The handle bars were slightly crooked--nothing that a good hammer couldn't get rid of and the exhaust that poured out from the desperately angled pipe was pure black and burning. It was everything Paul had ever dreamed of.

Ever since he was five, he dreamed of owning his own bike. His own Harley Davidson with a sleek paintjob, fat tires, an engine that purred and an accelerator that had no limit to it's speed. Though, by the time he was seven, he realized that any hopes of owning such a bike were far beyond his reach though instead, began to lower his standards and take a rather keen interest in the junk yard across from the trailer park.

Six years of work… stealing parts, bartering for custom pieces and special tires, a fast accelerator and a steal frame that was spray painted black. Six years and it was finally complete. All his hard work becoming worth it in a matter of seconds as the key turned in the ignition and the gas was pumped to the engine, flooding it momentarily before the beast roared to life. It was a moment Paul would never forget, and one that didn't last more than a few seconds as the engine flooded again and the sound was cut out to a long, agonizing drawl.

"Fuck."

"Shit man, I can't believe it. You actually got that thing to work!"

It was high noon and the shade they had currently been basking in was reduced to a hairline that edged along the trailer. Movement inside was scarce and the smell seemed to have gotten worse as the rotting cans of garbage began to release their foul toxins into the air. Their shirts were off and Malaki had finally taken a position next to the front of the bike, trying his best to hide in what little shade their was while Laddie had been placed beneath the sloping, wooden porch. Dead asleep… though hopefully not the dead part.

Paul shook his head and tried the ignition again, listening to the gears grinding, the gas guzzling and the engine coming to life once more. The exhaust snapped and crackled, releasing more black smoke into the air. Every inch of his body was doused in sweat from the heat and excitement. Fuck, he couldn't believe it worked!

"You know what this means," Malaki started in. "You gotta take it down to the tracks and try it out. Isn't your accelerator a custom?"

Paul shrugged. "I don't have a speed gage or anything, but the guy said it went up to almost eighty miles and hour. Not sure how the bike will handle under that kind of pressure."

He couldn't hide the smile on his face as he talked and moved around the frame slowly, running calloused fingers over the machine and feeling his life's work complete. At least for this decade.

"You going to try it out?" Malaki asked, brushing a damp strand from his face.

It seemed pointless not to, after all this time. He'd had it running once before, but it had quit on him at the end of the street and nearly caught fire after the stream of oil caught the sparks of a plug that wasn't quite attached to the engine. He'd fixed the problem but…

"C'mon man. You can't puss out now!"

Bottom lip was latched to for a long moment before hands placed themselves on the handlebars and legs wrapped around the leather seat. For all the time he spent working on his baby, not once had he ever really ridden a motorcycle before. It was like a bike, wasn't it? It just took balance, concentration and--

The gear was forced into place and letting loose the clutch he lurched immediately forward with more power than he had intended. A lot more.

The sun was in his eyes, therefore he couldn't have had any idea that the fence was right in front of him or that he crashed through the damn thing entirely, splintering white shards across their neighbor's yard, an old drunk by the name of Randy Fischer who happened to be sitting on his porch at the time, gurgling his usual afternoon whiskey and cleaning his rifle. The yell could be heard down from the street, incoherent from the booze, but Paul didn't dare turn around and look behind him. Christ, that fence was destined to come down with the next major that hit Santa Carla and the guy should have been happy that Paul finished the job.

A gunshot later, however, and hand was pushing harder against the gas, body ducking as far as he could lean upon the bike that took off down the street at dangerously high speeds.

The man hadn't been lying. The bike was flying down the road, wobbling here and there as Paul tried to keep himself steady and dodge the up-coming traffic which consisted of honking cars that flashed by in gleaming shards out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't take his gaze off of the road in front of him. Off the white lines at his side that had suddenly stretched into a single blur against the black road. Fuck, how fast was he going? 

The air around him became cool as sweat poured in icy streams along his body. After a moment, lungs began to remember how to breathe and body steadied itself upon the bike, relaxing just a bit as he passed another blaring car along the road.

Mind raced at the speed his bike was going, trying to tell his hand to ease up. To test out the breaks that he had spent weeks on, making sure they worked and he would be left crashing over the handlebars and into a nearby stop sign on the road. But fingers continued to clench, forcing him into even faster speeds that took him right into town. Right up to the Boardwalk and then on it. And almost into the Ferris Wheel, though he managed to remember where the breaks were by the time that people were screaming.

Eyes blinked. Mind refocused and body began to feel once again.

"Jesus Christ…"

It had been a rush. A real rush--better than the kind that was bought for five bucks behind the Burger Stand on 2nd North Street. His heart was racing, body tingling before aching entirely and mind still unable to draw him into the present and the fact that he had just taken his first ride on his finished bike. That he had taken out the neighbor's fence in the process and probably caused two accidents or more on the highway while driving down the wrong side of the street.

But damn! He'd never felt more alive. More in control of that which had taken him six years to build from the ground up. Breath came out in shuddered gasps as he managed to wheel the bike around and start the engine once more, hitting the gas and taking it out of the gathering crowds before the Boardwalk Patrol managed to see him.

He hit the roads doing almost forty, desperate to catch a sense of that feeling once more. It didn't matter where he went, so long as the wind was on his back and his baby was carrying him at high speeds towards his destiny.

And that of course, was to race.


	6. First Score

"Fifty on Pauly-boy."

"You fuckin' crazy man? The kid barely knows how to handle a bike!"

The fires were kept low for a reason: no one wanted their profiles to be seen. Men and women of all ages, races, creeds and gangs were gathered in this single spot every Friday and Saturday night, betting dirty money and dirty races, hoping to get away with some clean and very sweet cash. It was the fifth time Paul was racing and hopefully this time, he wouldn't end up in the ditch.

"What are you talking about, man? Have you seen him recently?"

The man was wiry, reminding one of a weasel or ferret when they studied his lengthy body, the unshaven face and the long, rat braid that fell down his sloping back. He wasn't their friend… not really. More like a business partner who knew how to bet and gamble and had a lot of contacts on the strip. He was the guy you went to when you needed something. Anything. Weed, illegal porn promos, a clean hooker or a free cable hookup--anything. He dressed in the same clothes day after day: rugged, paint-stained blue jeans with a rotten smelling vest and a pair of dark shades resembling Jim Morrison's. Hell, if you were gullible enough, he would sell them to you claiming they were the real things.

Paul had seen the man to get a number of his custom parts and after watching the kid rocket off on his bike after stopping to pick up a dime bag, the man had convinced him to take to the tracks. Hell, experience could come later--he was fucking fast!

Reggie, an old wino who handled all the bets and money, grimaced as he glanced over to the blonde-haired juke, rocking boredly against his handlebars and flirting with a couple of the girls that happened to be passing by. He shook his head.

"He doesn't know how to ride. You're just wastin' your money bettin' on him each week," he said in a flat accent, staring down at the stack of hundreds in his hand.

The Weasel wouldn't be ignored.

"Then the odds should be in your favor, shouldn't they?" He stated, stuffing the fifty-dollar bill into the stack and walking away.

It was true.. Paul knew how to ride so far as a Sunday driver was concerned. He could speed his little ass from one side of the boardwalk to the other, but when it came to racing under pressure with riders who would kick out their feet and ram them into the side of the bike, trying to throw him off balance… well, he was a little less than coordinated. The Weasel had faith, however, that the good Lord wouldn't cheat him out of anymore deals this week, lest he wanted one of his precious creatures to wake up with their kneecaps bashed in.

Dry lips were licked smoothly as he came to stand in front of the kid's bike, shooing away the pretty things that had gathered and staring down at the blonde through those darkened shades.

"I got fifty riding on you tonight. No more choke-ups. You already owe me big for last week so let's try to at least stay on the track this time and out of the ditch. I don't got to tell you what happens if you fuck up one more time."

No, he didn't. Cause Pauly-boy knew the consequences for owing the Weasel money. He could either work it off by selling whole grams of grass and other narcotics to the lovely gangs of surfer nazi's and other unsuspecting customers on the worst parts of the beach and Pier, or he could accept his failures in life and wake up with his kneecaps missing. His choice.

But either way, he always got his money back.

* * *

"Fuck, he put down fifty, man. I don't know what the hell I'm going to do if I don't win this race."

"You're going to sell for him. Probably for two months getting your ass kicked by all the nazi's and drug hounds."

Malaki could always be counted on for words of encouragement when Paul was feeling nervous and disoriented. And if one couldn't sense the sarcasm oozing from his train of thought, then they seriously needed to be taken out behind the tracks and shot.

"Look, I don't want to say you're a lousy racer… but you're a lousy racer, dude. What the hell happens out there---can't you dodge those fuckers when they try to kick you down?" he asked, staring intently at Paul as he looked away.

"Dude, it's not as easy as you think. This shit is sometimes slick and if my tire catches a rut I could slide down into--" One from Malaki said that he didn't believe a goddamn thing that was coming out of Paul's mouth. And neither did he.

He couldn't describe what it was. Fear perhaps… but something more. All eyes were on him, he could feel their stares searing into his flesh, hearing their jeering from the sidelines as he passed. Fuck, he couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand the idea of failing or looking stupid in front of others.

Eyes looked back towards his friend who seemed a little worse for wear these past couple of days. Apparently his mom had found out about his various stashes and habits, promising to kick him out on the street if he didn't clean up his act and fast. Which meant he had to find a better way to hide the addictions and the green herb they smoked every Sunday night while watching the Late Shows.

Fuck, he was starting to miss those nights.

"Look, I can understand pressure, Paul. But I don't want to spend the next two months out on the beach, trying to get people to buy roadside weed for a price that I wouldn't even fucking buy into. So please, I'm asking you as a fellow stoner and as someone who sunburns really easily, don't fuck this one up."

A nod and a pat to the back before he retreated to the sidelines, standing rigidly next to the Weasel and the girls that Paul had spoken to beforehand. Teeth grit inside his mouth and hands clenched the gears. Easy for him to say, he didn't have to be the one on the back of this monster, trying to keep from sliding on the track and from being forced down into the ditch where a combination of mud and water were extremely hard to get out of the exhaust pipe.

"Pauly-girl! You're up!"

Teeth grit harder in his mouth, tearing the sides of his cheek as he pushed the bike towards the starting line that was spray-painted in white against the sandy ground. Laughs were already starting, watching as Paul clamored up upon the beast and steadied himself before starting the engine. The racer this week was another newbie, though with a full three months and a couple of key wins beneath his belt. His own sponsor was a pimp everyone called Swak.

Don't ask why.

Breath was choked inside his chest, heaving here and there while forgetting to breathe all together as the flagger came out onto the musty track. An old t-shirt stolen of the man's own back was the flag itself, Paul felt himself begin to lurch before the damn thing was even brought up into the air.

Fuck… just focus. Think of happy things… think of Maria Tequila and the kiss she gave him for babysitting Laddie all night--

The shirt was brought down and before he knew it, fingers responded by forcing the gas into place and rocketing down the track with the second biker catching the dust from his start. They always fell behind in the beginning, but it never lasted long. He made his turns too wide, allowing them to slide in from beside him and, when they couldn't pass him entirely, stick their legs out and kick at his own, causing him to falter and slide, sometimes hitting the ditch.

There were two major turns, otherwise the track was a complete circle, leading them back to where they started and the gathering crowd of fifty or more people, cheering the winner and throwing glass bottles at the loser.

He couldn't loose. Not this time.

Not next time either.

Not ever.

Eyes focused on the track before him and body leaned further into the bike itself, forcing the turns to come sharper and more angled, causing his opponent to fall back behind him, unable to pass. Excitement… a cool rush in his veins like the first day he had taken his bike out. He was catching the sense of adrenaline, the sense of speed that carried him in a single blur along the track.

The racer at his back wasn't so easily thrown off. Paul could sense the bike coming up from behind him and that front wheel barely skimming over the edge of his back, causing him to lurch forward sharply and handlebars to wobble with the sudden jarring movements. The process was repeated again and again, Paul shouting into the wind and glancing behind him, trying to cope a glare at the bastard before slowing his bike enough to where they were right next to each other.

Locked, as the announcers on professional racing shows, called it.

The kid was around Paul's age with the stoner physique of a lengthy body and two large, glaring brown eyes. Both were likely competing for the same reason. The same sense of glory that only the rush of speed and the sound of cheering could give them. A chance to feel accepted, to be a step above their white-trash class in society. To fucking fit in.

A jean clad leg shot out, slamming the kid hard against his engine and forcing him completely from the track itself and into the muddy waters.

All that he could remember next was the blurring white line against the ground and Malaki's face rushing towards him through the waves of bodies that circled around his bike.

"You did it Paul! You won!"


	7. The Video Store

Fuck, this was the life.

Money in his pocket, the wind through his hair, Malaki at his back, hollering to all the pretty things they passed at high speeds on the boardwalk, and a brand new movie store where rumor had it that they had the new release of the Doors music videos--one last sales pitch for the already deceased Lizard King.

Paul couldn't remember a moment in his life when he had rented an actual movie. When he'd wasted his dope money on food or other necessities that now came easily with the cash that rolled in from each victory he managed to take. Seventeen wins in a row since his first victory on the track. The betting had gone from fifty dollars a race to near three-hundred with the Weasel squeezing every dime out of the pimps and sponsors that gathered around the course, watching with bleary eyes as their best racers were taken down by a punk who, weeks before, had no idea how to handle such a powerful bike.

He couldn't describe it, the rush he experienced and the strange connection he had to the metal beast. Fear was replaced with an absolute need to be the winner and fuck if he was going to let anyone take that title away from him. At least not any time soon.

Malaki had done his share as well, scaling the run-down shacks and beaches, spreading the word of Paul's victories to up-coming racers who were nervous before ever laying eyes upon the blonde-haired juke. The exaggerations of Malaki's mouth didn't help either. The Weasel paid them fifty for each race won plus a dime bag to keep Paul's mind and body limber. This… was how the rockstar's lived.

The video shop was relatively new; Paul didn't remember seeing it before last week. Neon lights flashed in vivid shades of icy pink and electric blue, lighting the way into the store itself where shelves upon shelves of movies were stacked, all neatly lined in single-file rows and a clean-cut man in a warming blue suit, sat behind a polished glass counter, silently reading the newspaper and drinking what looked to be coffee.

He was the kind of respectable citizen that the boys immediately hated and feared. The very cleanliness of his appearance made damn sure that he wasn't a man to be trusted and would likely call the cops on them if he even caught a whiff of their weed. Malaki was still buzzing but Paul managed a sober face and a quick nod as the guy smiled and waved them over to the counter.

"Looking for something?" he asked, the pleasant tone causing strange goosebumps to form on Paul's arm.

"Well, actually.." Paul hesitated a moment, staring after Malaki as he walked jaggedly towards a row of movies, trying to hide those glazed and reddened eyes. "We were wondering if you had any movies on the Doors. Like music video's and shit--I mean.. stuff."

It was the man's eyes that had caught him off-guard. Normally Paul didn't give a fuck who heard him swear or how often he did it. But strange blue eyes caused a moment's shudder through his veins and something in the back of his mind was telling him to flee. Goddamn the Weasel and his laced dope.

"Actually, I think I might have one. Strange Days, I think it's called?" he said, rising from his seat and moving around the counter.

"Yea, that's the one." Paul nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets and trying to wipe away the sweat that had begun to build upon them.

Even the man's movements were strange. Slow and graceful, almost calculating as he began to search the shelves for the movie, letting fingers glaze along each movie case before stopping and staring for a long moment before moving on. Eyes shot to Malaki, laughing silently to himself and trying to hide the strange blush that had risen on his cheeks. Paul tried to motion the kid over but he was too slow to respond as he turned and nearly collided with the man. Like a frightened dog he immediately backed out of the way, mumbling apologies under his breath and brushing those dark strands over his face to hide his eyes that were clearly lost somewhere inside his body. Every nerve was firing off in Paul's own, sending the kid on edge and immediately he regretted the decision to come here.

It was a conspiracy. All a fucking conspiracy and at any moment, the cops were going to show up and---

"Here it is. Strange Days staring Jim Morrison and the Doors."

The voice managed to snap him from his delusional-paranoia fantasy, causing a swift nod and a fumble as he and Malaki approached the counter. The man's eyes hardly left the register as he dialed in the correct amount, scanned the tape and set it before them.

"One dollar, please."

After fidgeting, hitting Malaki in the shoulder as the kid tried to shuffle in Paul's pockets to nervously hand the man his money, Paul managed to snake out a soggy one-dollar and set it on the counter before the man. It was at that moment their eyes would meet and something strange and unearthly would enter the rocker's mind.

Vampire.

It was so blunt, so out of the blue that his mind had no idea where word had come from but once found, it glowed above the man's head like one of those goddamn neon signs.

Vampire.

"Like Jim Morrison, do you?" he asked, those eyes never leaving Paul's own.

Paul hesitated again. The blood was pounding in his ears and mind was still attempting to wrap itself around the word that wouldn't seem to go away. Vampire. Vampire. VAMPIRE.

"Yea man, he was the fucking Sixties," said Malaki, coming to his friend's rescue as he spoke up and took the movie in hand. The black hair remained in his face, though eyes managed to draw away the man's stare from Paul's own.

Heart beat returned, breath came back and the word suddenly seemed lost in the back of his mind, waiting to haunt the kid in his stoner-induced nightmares. Fuck, this was some heavy shit the Weasel gave them.

"Well, I hope you enjoy your movie. Please, do come again," he said with a nod.

Paul didn't respond. Malaki was shoving him towards the door and the minute they were outside, the shove came harder and sharp into his spine.

"The fuck is wrong with you, man? You looked like you were about to pass out or something," the dark-haired kid said, brushing and towards the bike.

Paul couldn't respond. Moving towards the bike, he jumped atop it and waiting until Malaki was seated behind him, he started the engine and gunned it. Hard.

What the hell was he suppose to say? He had a sudden insight that the man was a vampire and he knew that Paul knew he was one? Yea right. Malaki liked the supernatural, the stories of darkness that haunted along the edge of the pier and the idea that vampires might really exist. But he didn't believe it.

Not really.


	8. Bad Omen

The house was dark and empty when they arrived, Malaki using the door to alert his mother that it was just him and Paul using the basement window to slip through and to the worn couch that smelled so heavily of hash it was amazing that it didn't alert the cops that drove by.

Reclining, an arm came over those eyes and mind tried to black out all thoughts and feelings. Tried to push the moment behind him and the man's face staring into his own.

Fuck, he was just some guy! Some arrogant bastard owning his own video store with a movie that was probably low-grade. Why the hell should it matter to Paul so much?

It took a few minutes before the kid came barreling down the steps and smiling as tossed the video against Paul's chest.

"She's out for the night. One of her drinking binges, shouldn't be back till the morning," he said, taking his own seat at the frumpy chair that faced the t.v.

"Fucking sweet," he said, removing that arm and staring over at his friend. "Let's get fucking trashed. I don't care if we use up this shit, it's already laced with something. I want to forget what it's like to feel."

There were few times in their lives that Malaki ever stared at Paul with a sense of concern. Worry for his friend that seemed almost twisted at times in his humor, who came over with fresh bruises on his face or got angry when asking about his dad.

Paul tried to avoid his eyes, but it didn't stop the question from coming.

"Fuck man, are you okay? Seriously, you looked like you saw a ghost or something, back there."

"I told you, he fucking laced this shit," he said, throwing that arm back over his eyes. "It was just paranoia, I'm cool now."

Thankfully Malaki had learned not to press the issues with his high-strung friend and simply shrugged as he moved towards the dusty VCR, taking out the video from it's case and pushing it inside. The t.v. hazed for a moment, showering the screen with snow before a bleary picture began to show through and a strange organ played in the background.

Something was wrong.

Normally Strange Days started out with circus freaks and high-pitched keyboards with the scream of guitar solo and Jim's voice in the background. This showed a castle on the top of some mountain, lightning crashing in the background as the organ groaned and continued to alight the back-drop with it's sound.

Both eyes fell to the screen, staring for a long moment at the flashing images of pale-red blood dripping upon the ground and wolves howling in the distant night, their shadows stretching across the screen before the inky black letters appeared.

VAMPIRES.

"You gotta be shitting me, that fucker ripped us off!" Malaki exclaimed, though his eyes didn't dare rip away from the sudden crawl up the mountainside, into the castle itself with the music rising and the cryptic images becoming more and more realistic. It was nothing like the Late Show.

"Fuck! He must have put the wrong movie in the case," Paul said, his own eyes glued to the screen.

Malaki managed to turn away and stare at his friend with a shrug. Hell, it was better than anything that was on t.v. Besides, he always had a thing for vampire stories.

Paul scoffed and threw a pillow at him. "Fine, we'll watch. But no sleeping next to me if you get freaked out."

_Two hours later…_

They sitting on the couch next to one another, eyes locked to the woman on the screen that cried out for help again and again as the vampire stalked her from the shadows. Her lovely hair was strewn about bare shoulders, her body was already bleeding fresh blood, drawing the monster near.

Fuck, why didn't she run?! Get away, you stupid girl! Fucking head for the hills!

It was already too late.

The monster descended down upon her, fangs flashing, blood littering the screen and the final note before everything went black was the woman's shrill scream.

The End.

Credits began to scroll on the screen and before long, the cassette would pop out of the player, causing both boys to jump and stare at each other in a moment of pure fear before putting on nervous smiles and punching the other in the arm.

"Fuck, it can't end like that. She should have gotten away," Malaki said, brushing away black locks and moving to take the video out of the player.

Paul eased back against the couch, nervous for a moment that something might reach out from behind him and pull him back into some secret room. Torture him before draining his body dry of it's blood.

"I liked it," he said with a sinister smile. "It's like, if vampires were really real, you know? Not just some monster with a widow's peak and plastic fangs that's easily killed with a stake. But something that would drag you down with it to Hell. Fucking awesome."

It was Malaki's gaze that caught his attention, staring towards the steps with a sudden brush of fear. The kid was known for pranks, but the expression on his face caught Paul completely off guard.

"Fuck, what is it? Your mom?" he asked, rising half-way from the couch.

"Shh!"

The creak was slow… soft at first though it grew louder with a sudden "THUMP." Like the movie, the shadows began to swivel around them and an unseen breeze would cause a shudder to race up Paul's spine.

THUMP.

His voice was a hurried whisper. "Dude, is it your mom? Should I hide or something?"

Malaki waved for him to be quiet. The noise had stopped… but thanks to the rotting floorboards, the creaking remained. They could trace the steps… moving through the living room… the kitchen… and stopping.

Paul was immediately at his friend's side. "Dude! It's a fucking vampire! It's that guy from the store, I knew it!"

"Shh!"

"No dude, it's him. I saw it.. I saw something in his eyes--it was weird and fucked up but I--"

"Dude, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"That--"

THUMP.

Their hearts were racing. The sound of Paul's own echoing in his ears while sweat coursed in icy trails down his spine as the silence fell once more.

It was unbearable. The slow creaks would start again, though this time growing closer and closer to the stairs. Their bodies were frozen in motion, Malaki glancing towards Paul with large, fearful eyes that flinched and blinked with each passing sound. Almost as though he were pretending that, if he didn't see it… it couldn't hurt him. Paul couldn't help but stare towards the steps.

Maybe if he--

THUMP-THUMP.

The first two steps.

He didn't know how both he and Malaki had moved to the couch, but bodies were huddled together, tense and ready to spring for the window.

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.

The next three. Unfortunately, there was only a few more to--

THUMP-THUMP.

His hands were reaching out, gripping a near by lamp and feeing the weight of it in his palm as he prepared to throw it at the thing that was coming straight for them. Be it Malaki's mom or a monster, he wasn't going to get fucking bitten and drained dry.

THUMP.

The final step.

Darkness… the only light was from the t.v. as the screen hazed with snow and indistinct images that blurred and spoke in silence. It was perhaps in a moment of pure brilliance, that Paul managed to remember the switch on the lamp that he held crushed between his fingers. Nervously they searched and tweezed for the button, finally finding it and flicking the light on to reveal…

"FUCKING MUFFINS!"

The black cat was seated on the ground near the steps, staring at the boys with two cocksure, yellow eyes before giving a gaping yawn and licking it's paws in boredom.

Fucking Muffins the cat.

"Now… what were you saying about that guy being a vampire?" Malaki asked, breathing a sigh of relief at the same time and pretending that he'd known all along what it was.

Paul's response was a pillow straight to the face and that widening grin.


	9. New Jukes

He never saw the guy before. Not once on the streets, the boardwalk or the beach. He appeared out of a shadow like a phantom on wheels; a twisted beast of metal and pure power that even Paul was envious of.

He was young. Older than Paul, but no more than twenty-five at the most with white-blonde hair, dark clothing and two cronies that sat like silent vultures at his side, equally equipped with motorized beasts that the rocker couldn't even begin to dream of owning.

The smallest was a ferret-sized kid; small structure, sharp features and a mountain of curly hair that swept along his shoulders, making Paul think of Shirley temple each time he watched it bounce and sway. The second was a dark-skinned man of obvious Indian heritage, deep, brown eyes scanning along the crowds and a smirk forming at something that the other said.

The first man was obviously a leader of sorts, leaning back along his bike and watching the others with a steady gaze that never wavered, though seemed entirely bored with the scene. They had no sponsors with them, though at the same time, each seemed ready to race and held an air of arrogance about them that was unmatched by any Paul had seen.

Hell, maybe they were pimps or undercover cops.

"Fucking punks."

The Weasel's breath moreso than his voice would cause the rocker to stumble forward lightly, gripping those still bent handlebars and trying to look at the man without actually having to get any closer.

"Come here and act like they own the place--who the fuck do they think they are?"

The man's shaded gaze would glance over towards the leader of the small gang, staring him down for a moment before the other managed to catch those eyes and hold them firmly within his own. The smirk came quickly across his face. Sadistic just as it was silent and charming.

It made Paul want to hate him and be his friend at the same time.

A shrug came to those shoulders.

"Probably just a bunch of drifters," he said, glancing away and focusing back upon the unshaven man.

"Yea, well, I don't like fucking newbies that come out on this track with no history. They gotta have something up their sleeves, I can see it in that creepy fuck's eyes."

Paul tried not to look again, though the air was suddenly growing too hot around him to stand.

"Then why don't you come over here and do something about it?"

The air stilled around them, voices growing more distant as gaze would turn back to see the leader staring straight for the Weasel himself, the smirk growing into a full fledged grin.

The man seemed almost startled for a moment. Unsure of what to say.

They weren't friends… but Paul had obligations to the man. If he was in a fucking bad mood tonight, that could mean no payment for winning and therefore, suffering the next few weeks without food, weed or dirty magazines.

Besides, the rocker didn't like the prick's tone.

"Hey, what's a bitch like you doing on the front of a bike?" he said, leering over the handlebars with his own twisted smile.

Those blue eyes would turn sharply, staring towards Paul for the first time all night. He could see why the Weasel had hesitated.

Thankfully, his mouth spoke faster than his mind. "Maybe if you weren't so ugly, I'd ask you to come hop on the back of mine."

It was a sense of deja'vu; the man's eyes devouring him slowly. Coursing over every last features and detail of Paul's face while at the same time, seeming to calculate his next move.

"That piece of shit you got there can really race?" he asked in a laid back tone.

Fingers unconsciously gripped the handlebars, feeling tension rising throughout his shoulders at the remark about his bike. It may have looked like shit, but damnit, he'd worked hard on it!

"That depends, you man enough to find out?" he asked, unable to hide the anger clouding his voice.

The smile twisted, baring back white teeth as a soft laugh would snake out. The other's followed in suit, eyeing out Paul's bike with their own twisted stares and trying to figure at just what the kid was getting at by throwing a bunch of junk-metal together and calling it "good."

Paul could feel his body heating up with anticipation, his face turning red from anger and his eyes glaring sharply back, waiting the other's reply.

"How far are you willing to go to prove yourself, Paul?"

"Far enough to turn back and see your fucking ass stuck in a ditch."

It was a challenge. The noise had fallen silent around them and all eyes seemed to be focused on them. The laugh would come once more, followed by a slow roll of those shoulders in a shrug.

"So be it. Let's race."

It was only seconds later as they each stood at the starting line, that Paul realized the man had spoken his name.


	10. Rift

He couldn't recall the moment his heart stopped, the moment he felt his bike give way upon the slippery gravel or the sudden blaring of that engine as it surpassed him entirely, accompanied by a smirking face and pair of impossibly blue eyes.

He could remember everything before it happened….

"Don't listen to that fucker, Paul. He's a punk! Now you get out there and show him! Show him how a racer really races!"

Strong words from Malaki as kid slapped at his back and helped to position the heavy bike at the starting line. Interest was renewed amongst the crowds as they gathered along the sidelines; the Weasel standing near the back, looking somewhat pissed for the fact that this challenge was entirely of Paul's own doing. The kid shouldn't have waited to watch the other race a couple of times and learn his technique. But a big mouth and an equally big ego would inevitably be his downfall.

Left foot was planted on the ground, steadying the bike while sweat-glazed palms revved the engine and tested the clutch, making sure his baby was ready to move the second he let the gas go. The other, however, didn't seem to be taking the challenge all that seriously. He was poised, positioned, though eyes remained locked to the side of Paul's face, burning a hole straight through him as though the man could read his thoughts. For a split second… the vampire movie came back in full, technicolor flashes of watery red, black and white. The vampire in the movie had been able to read thoughts, that was how he kept appearing before the hunters and picking them off one by one.

No one had survived.

Fingers tensed and eyes remained focused on the road before him. It was just a psyche-out. The fucker was trying to unnerve him so that when the flag came down he could---

Bikes leapt forward at the same moment, showering the crowds with dirt and debris as tires squealed and bodies were in motion, flying down the center of the track. Just as he expected: his own bike pushing forward through the clouds of dust, rising speeds of nearly thirty miles and pressing forward until he could reach somewhere around fifty. It was a risk, but flying around the corners at top speed ensured that he could win any race. Others had to slow down and glide across the gently but Paul took edges sharply, wheeling that bike at a fast angle and stopping for nothing or no one that got in his way.

The first bend was easy… no sign of the rider at his side. Had he given up already? Or caught a rift and fell into the ditch? It was too easy… the fucker may have been cocky but there was a sense of knowing in those blue eyes. A sense of pure confidence that couldn't be based just off of trash-talking alone.

It was around the second bend he would catch sight of the man. Black coat rifting through the wind and the smirk ever present on that pale face as he came up to match Paul's speed. There was no sign of struggle… no lack of confidence or sense of fear in his eyes as they turned to stare right at Paul, inching his bike forward with every passing moment. He could feel that stare. He could feel those eyes reaching out and somehow taking hold of his own.

It was in a split second, that turning to glance into the other's eyes that he would hit a large rift in the road. Large enough to cause his front wheel to bounce off and his back wheel to wobble unsteadily for a few moments before slipping entirely and sending Paul crashing down the side of the slopes, into a mess of mud and sewage.

No.. he couldn't quite remember what happened next. Maybe those pamphlets in school were right when they told kids to wear their helmets while riding a bike. Too bad his blackout didn't last until---

"Maybe you should practice a little harder. And come see me when you're worthy."

Blue eyes, ignited with triumph as they stared down the muddy slopes to where Paul was lying in the filthy water. Smirk ever present with those jagged words.

He probably would have tried to drown himself had the smell of the water not been so horrid. Body slumped against his bike, trying again and again to wrench the twisted metal out of the mud.

"You… fucker! You did something… you…" he spat, eyes glancing up towards the slopes to discover the rider gone and the trees suddenly illuminated with a sharp red and icy blue glow.

There were sirens, engines thrumming to life in the distance and Malaki wading through the mud towards him, telling him to shut the fuck up before---

"Freeze! Hands in the air!"


	11. The Joint

"C'mon sergeant! They fucking stink! Isn't this like, _cruel and unusual punishment _or something?"

If there was one decent thing that had happened all night, it was the fact that Paul and Malaki had ended up in the swamp and now smelled worse than the toilet that was backed up across the room. The cell was large, housing at least twenty other convicts and drug-dealers, a few faces they both vaguely could recognize and each with a twisted scowl across their lips, all trying to escape the rank stench that filtered off their bodies.

Honestly, he didn't think it was _that _bad.

Every few minutes, the man in a tan uniform would come up and slam his baton against the bars, trying to quiet the men inside. But even he was beginning to smell the defiled rankness of the two boys that sat, wedged in a corner together and looking like frightened kids, more-so than illegal racers and pot-smokers.

For all his bravo and antics out on the boardwalk, it was Paul's first time ever sitting alone in a jail. His first time gazing out from behind iron bars that weren't his own bedroom window. The first time he realized… he had to get out of here.

"Maybe my mom will bail us both out…" Malaki tried for hopeful but it came off almost emotionless. It was his first time in the "joint" as well.

Paul didn't respond. Malaki knew his mother wouldn't bail them both out, she might not even bail Malaki out and instead, leave him to rot for five weeks in this miserable cell for racing on the tracks illegally and smoking dope with a friend that had lost her respect the moment Paul had stepped inside the house with that shit.

But the idea of staying in jail wasn't what had an icy trial of sweat bleeding slowly down his spine. Suppose they called his mom? Suppose she found out what he'd been doing and figured he'd left the money in the house?

Hands clenched into fists at the thought… though before long they released with a cool exhale of breath and logic working it's way back into his mind. For one thing, their phone was off the hook and even if it was on, the woman had a problem with paying the bills and often times there was no service anyway. For another, by this point, both her and his stepfather were either high or drunk off their asses, screaming at each other in some heated argument, breaking everything in sight and wouldn't be able to hear the phone as it rang.

A long shot… but the odds were in his favor.

"Fuck, I think I'm done, Malaki."

The words were so sudden that they caused the dark-haired kid to jump and turn to look at Paul with a confused expression.

"Done?"

"Yea. With Santa Carla. With this fucking city and these dealers and my fucked up parents. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of everything. I'm going down to Florida to hook up with the remainder of my father's gang. Things have got to be better down there than they are up here."

The words seemed to startle the kid, to wake him up from his paranoid fantasy of his mother finding out and into the reality that he was possibly loosing a friend. But at the same time… there was only so much Paul could hide from him with those excuses. With the notion that he walked into doors and stairwells.

Into a fist.

"Just as soon as I get out of here and get my bike cleaned up, I'm out of here. Made seven-hundred and fifty dollars winning those races. It should be enough to get me down there," he said, avoiding the kid's eyes.

"And, you know, I always got room on the back if you want to… you know."

Well, it was titled the "bitch seat" but when it came to Malaki, he was willing to risk humiliation to get them both out of this fucking state. And for a single moment, the kid smiled. Just smiled.

Paul scoffed. "You know, until you can get a bike of your own, and what not."

Before the kid had a chance to answer, the man in the tan suit stepped up to the bars and pointed a chubby finger in their direction.

"Alright, both of you, out of there! Fuck, it's not worth pressing charges with you both smelling like that."

A single look of surprise was passed between them before both were jumping up and scurrying for the door. It may have been a boot in their ass but it was a boot they welcomed as it kicked them from the jail out into the streets and back towards the tracks to collect Paul's bike that still rested within the mud.

"Hey, not to sound gay or anything but.. I'd love to, man," Malaki said.

It was Paul's turn to smile.


	12. Bastard

"YOU FUCKING BASTARD!"

No… no, no, no, no!

His head was pounding, heart jumping wildly in his chest as hands reached out and grasped the closest thing to him--- a t.v. tray with three crooked legs that had been used to hold a fan, aimed directly at the couch and the fatass that resided upon it.

The same ass that was staring at the blonde-kid with an amused smile and two black eyes daring him to take a shot. Give him a reason to use those bowling ball fists and bash the little fucker's face in.

"You been selling my shit, haven't you? This money is rightfully mine!"

It was a strange thing… growing up with the man for so long and hating him every single day of Paul's life. Normally, stepparents attempted to get on the kid's good side. Bribing love out of them through money, treats, exotic vacations to the Bahamas and Sea World; all things that Paul dreamed about when he was seven and never received. But even if they weren't striving for approval, they normally didn't deprive their stepsons and daughters of food, clothing or anything else that constituted a life above abuse.

How? How the fuck could he have found the stash? All seven-hundred and fifty dollars sitting in a lump pile before him, collecting the ashes of that cigarette and spittle from his mother as she hacked and wheezed into a dirty napkin.

"I fucking _earned _that money. Give it back or I'll---"

"Or you'll what?"

The man had a way of intimidation, something he hadn't lost due to weight gain or spending the last thirteen years hanging around this trailer and enjoying a life free and easy from the cops and rival biker gangs. It was all in those eyes… the way he flexed those tree-trunk arms and waited patiently for Paul to strike. Like a lion setting a trap for it's prey.

"Fucking Paul… Just let it go."

His mother… was an entirely different matter. It was during the cool hours of morning that she fell into these strange dazes, drugging herself repeatedly before an alarm would sound somewhere and she would put on her shoes, her coat and drive out to her job at a local truck stop where waitresses need not be pretty or polite to their hardy customers. Somehow, the injections of heroine and speed made her more lax and easy to communicate with, but the second the drugs wore off, the mask of tiredness and humility dropped away to reveal a monster even more frightening than his stepfather.

The man was prick, an asshole and Paul wouldn't give a good goddamn if he was hit by a passing semi. His hits were short and fast, causing pain to last for only a weak and bruises sometimes for two. But his mother… her wounds went far deeper than the flesh. Her words were like venom, killing a person slowly from within.

Paul ignored her as he stared the bastard down, fists clenched around the legs of the t.v. tray and knowing that he had only a minimal chance of actually knocking the bastard out.

He knew it was hopeless, but for weeks he had worked hard to earn that money. Racing and winning and conning the Weasel into giving him at least a modest share of the prizes earned. All that… and it was about to be injected into the man's arm. Or snorted through a straw.

It happened in slow motion. Just like the race. The t.v. tray flew from his hands and eyes remained locked to the man as he watched the object hurtle through the air and directly for his face. It didn't take but a single hand to raise and bat the thing out of the way before Paul found himself running for dear life.

"YOU LITTLE SON OF A BITCH!"

He couldn't quite remember how or why he fell. What he had tripped on though it had probably been the porn magazine he'd been looking for all last week. An image of Kendra Slevan, nude and posed on a bed of silk in his mind's eye as fists came down and smashed against his body, luckily missing his face by an inch, though somehow he'd managed to get a bloody nose.

The only good thing about the bastard was that drugs and a heavy ass made one extremely tired extremely fast. Paul remained on the ground, however, crouching in a fetal position and trying to bite his lips through the pain of each hit to his body. To the husky breath that fell over him, reeking of booze and something incredibly vile.

"You ever touch me or my stash again and I'll fucking kill you," he wheezed.

At the moment, Paul was more than willing to test that statement.


	13. Pixiestick Revenge

10:00 p.m.

The kid's was growing tired as they walked along the crowded planks of the boardwalk; fists coming up to rub those eyes repeatedly while whining complaints grew more and more frequent as time went on. Normally, they would have been back at the trailer court with Laddie asleep on an uncluttered spot in his closet, well out of view should his stepfather or anyone else decide to burst through the paper-thin doors and tell him to turn the shit he was listening to, down.

But for the moment and the past few weeks, Paul had wisely decided to stay away from the courts and his own, humble abode. Pride was shattered, money was taken and the tracks were temporarily closed until new locations could be sought out in a cleaner region of the swamp.

Not that it mattered much.

A single race lost and he immediately fell out of the Weasel's favor, dragging down Malaki and all those who had betted on his winning, with him. The dark-haired juke had also lost his money. Literally, _lost it._ Paul couldn't even begin to think on how stupid his friend must be to loose that kind of cash and not find a trace of it anywhere inside his room, his house, his neighbors house or the whole fucking yard. He was amazed and yet incredibly pissed at the same time, refusing to even speak to the bastard for the moment until he could wrap his mind around the idea that the hash they had smoked really had destroyed his brain.

Unthinkable and yet, that was Santa Carla. Dumbass Capital of the World.

The cigarette tweezed lightly in his fingertips, gray smoke billowing upwards into the night sky and eyes locked down towards the beach, watching the various fires being lit and the college parties starting with numerous kegs that were being kept out patrolman's gaze as they were harbored beneath the pier. Someone was grilling burgers and hot-dogs near by. Fuck, he was hungry.

"Paul, can we go now?"

Despite the various pixie sticks he'd stolen for the kid from a nearby vender, the sugar rush only seemed to have lasted a good half-hour and they were still on the clock for at least three more. His current home, which included a backpack of things that he absolutely could not live without (mostly cassette tapes, porn magazines and his own personal writings kept within a rubber-band bound journal), was upon Maria's couch during the swell of the morning hours, her yard during the afternoon and the boardwalk at night with Laddie when she met with her "Johns" and dealers at the trailer.

With a newfound babysitter, the woman seemed to be soaking in the privileges of sending the boys off and conducting business from the comfort of her own home. Not that he minded it much, though it felt weird coming back to her trailer each night, laying on a couch he knew had been soiled at least three-hundred-plus times and waking up to the smell of sour coffee and an oldies radio station playing.

It made life tolerable… though money was growing short, even with her high-paying customers and food was becoming more and more difficult to find.

Smoke was exhaled in a single breath. "Your mom said not till one, that's…. three hours from now."

The kid's face began to fall somewhere close to tears and Paul immediately tried to think of something to keep him from breaking down.

"Hey, come now! You know, if we play our cards right, I might be able to get us into one of these parties. Maybe get you a burger or something and then you can roast marshmallows or throw beer cans in the fire and watch them explode." God help him if he ever became a father, his kids would be dead before the age of three.

The coaxing worked, however, with the mention of marshmallows. For some reason, roasting them and the possibility of making smores was every little kid's wet dream.

Paul smirked and nodded. "Okay then, we'll have to find you some sticks somewhere and get a bag of marshmallow's from the store…"

Hands searched through empty pockets, remembering the five dollar bill he had stashed away and later spent on a stand somewhere near the edge of town. Fried chicken on a stick---the good kind. But either way, he was broke.

Glancing back at the kid, he gave a shrug. "Looks like we're going to have to wing this. How about… Dead Puppy Boy? We haven't done that one in a long time."

* * *

The kid was a natural. Hell, he should have been in Hollywood, staring in movies and commercials and making a ton of money with the talent he had in getting attention. Sitting in the middle of an aisle, hands were brought to his face as tears began to seep slowly from those eyes and exaggerated huffs of breath, rose through the air and those bent shoulder blades.

Carts were stopped around him. A late-night worker who had been stocking immediately dropped what he was doing and knelt down by the kid, patting him on the shoulder and asking repeatedly what was wrong. He led them on for a good five minutes, simply crying and soaking in the affection he received from others before a quivering voice spoke out and told of how a man in a red car that was speeding along the road had hit his puppy, Spot. His brother had chased after the man and now he didn't know where he was, only that his dog was now in a dumpster and he couldn't figure out how to get him out.

Paul watched the scene from behind the shelves, stuffing the marshmallow's down his pants as he did so. Christ, could they make them any bigger? When he was a kid, all they had were the small bits that were easily fit into a mug intended for cocoa. Roasting had come later with the re-discovery of fire.

"Oh you poor thing…" a woman's voice cooed as she leaned down to brush a hand through dirty locks of brown hair. Her own was in curlers and a thick, pink robe was curved around her own body, making Paul unsure of whether or not she was actually clothed beneath it. Maybe she was sleep-shopping.

The shop attendant offered to call the kid's parents and let them know what happened, though by that time, Paul was already rushing to the scene.

"Laddie! Christ, I am so sorry I left you. I just got carried way--"

"Are you this boy's brother?" The attendant asked, trying to keep his eyes away from the strange bulge that was gathered in teenager's pants.

Paul nodded and tried his best not wince with each soft crinkle that accompanied his movements. And to hide it, he spoke louder. "YES. I'M HIS BROTHER. I WAS TRYING TO TRACK DOWN THOSE FUCKERS WHO HIT OUR DOG BUT I COULDN'T GET A LISCENSE PLATE NUMBER. HOPEFULLY THE POLICE WILL."

Eyebrows rose and after a moment the attendant nodded and stepped back as Paul scooped the kid up into his arms. "Well, if you need to call or anything---"

"NO. WE'RE FINE. WE CAN WALK FROM HERE," he said, though already the bag was starting to fall down his leg and the quicker he moved, the more the plastic crinkled and caused Laddie to break character and laugh against his neck.

Thankfully they were out the door before anyone could say anything and ducking behind a rusted out Volkswagen, the bag was removed and tossed towards the giggling twerp.

"There. Fifty marshmallow's ready for roasting. Now all we gotta find are some sticks and a way to get inside that kegger without them knowing… we're not suppose… to be there…" Words died on the sudden rush of wind that rose around them; the sudden rush of noise that carried over the road like thunder from a fresh storm.

Paul knew that sound. The starkness of metal clashing against metal, the roar of an engine moving at top speed and the taste of adrenaline, pumping out every pore inside the body and running hot through one's own veins. Motorcycles. Three of them and they were headed this way.

It was like the moment in that strange video store. The paranoia creeping along his spine and a prenotion to get the hell out overcoming all thought process. But why? If it was anyone from the boardwalk, they were little better than pickpockets at the most with only their rides to jump when they were being followed or chased. The real criminals were in the city itself and it wasn't likely to see any of them out so early on the Strip.

But it wasn't the thief's, or the major crime bosses or anyone Paul would have wanted to meet at that very moment, standing outside the Grocery store with a bag of marshmallow's and the kid he was babysitting for an incredibly hot prostitute.

"Fuck! Laddie, get under the car!"

The kid was use to snap orders and reacted immediately by crouching down and ducking beneath the van, marshmallow's still clutched within those little hands and large eyes staring out towards the source of the hypnotic roaring.

The Jukes. Snow White and her two fucking dwarfs in all their punkass glory. Before he could come up with better names, Paul shifted and slid beneath the car as well, staring out through strands of blonde hair as the members of the small gang circled around the parking lot before stopping their bikes along the edge of the pier, leading into the boardwalk itself.

Silently, Paul could feel the beginnings of rage course through his system, watching these bastards as they sat upon their bikes and stared out towards the passing crowds. It was one thing to be beaten by a rider who was only passing through and not in any serious commitment to racing or Santa Carla itself. But it was another to be beaten by a local; a racer whose name and stakes were known, who could afford the best shit because he earned it by simply being the best.

They hadn't been here but for a month and already rumors were spreading. Whispers of things that even Paul found strange and somewhat disturbing. It filled him with curiosity just as it did a sense of loathing and fear. And of course, fear caused an irrational anger that he knew he had no right to feel towards the bastard, Snow White.

All the man had done was look at him. That was it. No kick, no punch to the face or any kind of abuse that would send Paul flying face first into the mud. He'd asked Malaki as they were cleaning up his bike and the kid said that during the entire race, one could tell that the man was just playing with him. Waiting for the right moment to sneak up alongside Paul and squeeze around him, claiming an easy victory.

Every time he thought about it, he wanted to take a crowbar to own ride. Working years to make it just right and this bastard likely had a rich father or someone to go out and simply buy him his own. No strings attached, it was simply the luck that Fate gave to some and to others a swift boot in the ass.

But still… he was fascinated.

They seemed to have no real target, no place they needed to be. Bodies inclined for a few moments before Snow White stood up and the two followed in suit, walking away from their bikes and leaving them entirely out in the open. Paul couldn't help but blink and shake his head.

This wasn't the city, but it also wasn't the fucking Garden of Eden, either. A person didn't just leave their valuable shit lying out in the open with the keys likely still in the ignition, waiting for someone to walk by and decide to take a joy ride. Paul chained up his own piece of shit and once or twice he found markings in the links that indicated someone attempting to clip the chains and take off.

It was too easy. They couldn't really be that stupid, could they?

Body scraped against the ground lightly, glancing over towards Laddie whose eyes continued to follow the path that the leader had taken down the boardwalk. Waving his hand in front of the boy's face, eyes would blink and stare back at Paul with confusion.

"Who are they?" he asked in a whisper.

"I don't know… but I got a fucking bone to pick with that first one," spoken in a whisper as well, through grit teeth.

He tried to fight it… the anger pouring into his veins and the idea that it was somehow all connected. That everything in his shitty life had to do with a man he never saw before, who had beaten him fair and square on a crooked race. It was the wound in his pride, the wound from his stepfather and from the fact that he would likely be living in that godforsaken trailer court for the rest of his life.

This fucker was an open target and Paul already had his finger on the trigger.

"Hey, you still have some of those pixie sticks I got you?" he asked, glancing over at the kid.

Blue eyes squinted for a moment as fingers dug down in his pockets and brought up at least ten colorful straws of the sugar candy. Handing them to Paul, those same eyes would watch as the rocker squeezed himself back out under the van and took a moment before moving silently through the parking lot, towards the row of gleaming bikes.

Too easy. But the gang was nowhere in sight. Moving as quickly as he could, Paul approached the first bike, pausing only momentarily to stare in awe at it's beauty and to linger in the feeling that he was about to destroy something so perfect in it's design. Fingers twitched nervously, sweat was beading on his palm and dripping lightly against the black surface of the gas tank as he quickly unscrewed the knob. Paper straws were brought up to parched lips and teeth tore them open in one fatal swoop, spilling the colorful sugar own into the gasoline.

Sugar plus engine equaled one very, very fucked up ride. The substance would become gummy and clot the engine up until the gears could no longer turn or move and in essence, totaling the entire bike. Unless the man was a skilled engineer along with his racing abilities, there would be little he could do but pay a pretty penny to someone to fix the problem.

It went against every moral judgment and code of racing that he knew. But god, it felt so fucking good.

Quickly the cover was screwed back on and the paper straws thrown to the ground as he ran back for the van and the kid.

Now, the score was even.


	14. Jagged Parts

"Fuck David, it's totaled. Will take a miracle or a fire hose to get all this shit out."

The engine had been pried loose from the bike, spread out in all corners of the cave and studied for a good hour and a half before the diagnose was made. The grunge angel sat back on his haunches, shaking Shirley Temple locks away from that pale face and wiping more and more sticky gunk upon his jeans that was slowly beginning to hardened to a fine crust. Large eyes stared up at David in dismay. The kid was two-hundred years old and with a strange fascination for old time movies and taking things apart and attempting to put them back together again. It was that "young boy" sense that had never quiet left him over the years and something that was both highly appealing and highly annoying at the same time.

Fingers tightened inside his gloves, the leather creasing and giving squeaks of protest as the anger filtered through every pore of his body, igniting those deep-set eyes.

The scent had been evident from the moment they returned. Grease, pot and dirt, all mixed in with a male musk that the vampire had vague memories of gathering out at the tracks. He'd noted the long stands of blond hair that had fallen against the black sheen of his bike and within an hour of their nightly ride, he'd found the engine sputtering and the tailpipe burning with something incredibly foul.

And now, two hours later and his baby spread across the floor, and the evidence was clear.

Revenge.

"Is there no honor amongst humans anymore? Why do they feel the need to cheat and piss around until they get their way? Or hurt others to get back…" Spoken from the corner of the room, perched against a fallen bolder with dark strands of hair shadowing those already darkened eyes.

Dwayne. His Desert Dweller. The man had been born at the turn of the century when his people had been prosecuted and shipped off into the dying lands that were now known as "reservations." He was a quiet man, though when the mood struck him he could go on for hours about various different aspects of life, philosophy and other dimensions of thought that even David found hard to imagine or understand. It was hard to know if he truly despised humans or sought out their company in private. The man was well known to be a malicious killer while in the same instance, a passionate lover and caring friend.

The silence around them thickened as anger continued to boil through his body, thinking back to the races and remembering that stoner's face. Smirking, a rebellious air and sexual reference to everything that left his filthy mouth. Sharp eyes, somewhat bitter and sad from the life that David suspected was not a happy one, but always ready to devour the person before him and make sure that they knew he didn't give a fuck.

The air seemed to grow almost electric as he continued to sit and ponder, Marko nervously rising to his feet and stepping around the parts that lay across the ground.

The grunge angel was particularly sensitive to David's moods. He'd been the man's first and for a century, his only immortal child. Turned the day of his seventeenth birthday, the boy vampire had taken a very strange and twisted path into his new existence, separating himself from David for many years until finally returning and taking his rightful place at the man's side.

Their bond was deep and loyalty immense between them, though rebellious streaks would have Marko purposely agitating his leader in order to gain some sort of gratification or attention.

Though, right now, he knew that David was furious and any attempts to console or annoy would get him thrown across the cave at dangerously high speeds. The phrase "knock you into next week" wasn't so ridiculous when one was being "knocked" by a vampire.

David leaned back in his chair, staring at the mess on the ground and grimacing as he felt the weight of desire upon his shoulders, telling him to go out this very second, find the kid and rip him into shreds.

"Don't, David. It's too close to dawn. You'll fry before you even reach the city." For a man of few words, he didn't waste them. David gritted his teeth as he realized that Dwayne was right and dawn was no more than forty minutes away. The sun was already starting to crest over the shoreline and while he could withstand it's indirect gaze, the moment it reached the sky he would be nothing short of a burning pile of ash and blood.

If that.

"That little shithead… it would be worth it just to peal his skin from his body and douse him in ten gallons of salt." growled out softly as the crease of leather deepened against his palm and blue eyes blazed with a fury that made the others increasingly uncomfortable. Especially with dawn so close and the man's bike still shattered against the ground.

In the early traces of light, the gunk actually head a strange spectacle of color and upon closer examination, not to mention a small taste that was quickly spit out, Marko would laugh and shake his head.

"It's fucking pixie stick powder!"

Eyes shot towards the grunge angel as he continued to laugh before finding something conveniently caught in his throat and having to choke it out… on the other side of the cave. Even Dwayne was holding back a smile, but at the same time, he knew better than to speak.

The merriment would end abruptly as David stood, moving through the scattered parts until he reached the shell of the engine itself, picking it up and suddenly hurling it against the wall. It bounced off the rocks and fell into a deeper portion of the cave itself, echoing for a good distance and startling a few rats that were hidden amongst the debris.

Marko and Dwayne exchanged glances, but said nothing. Now was not the time to try and convince their leader that everything would work out; that the little prick would be found and manhandled before the night was over and he could just go out and buy a new bike.

But no… it wasn't that simple, not with the elder vampire whose pride and joy had been ripped to pieces and thoroughly destroyed.

By a human.

Seconds passed and the light grew more and more intense within the cave, forcing the two back further into the shadows and David to teeter along the softly glowing edges that poured in from the shattered glass of the sky-roof. The man had a likeness for playing with fire. For seeing how much he could withstand in a single moment before pulling back and retreating to the darkness and the confines of a much needed sleep.

Gloves traced the dusty trail of light, willing himself to feel nothing though the heat was already pressing through the worn leather and seizing his flesh in a slow-cooking sizzle. Power, knowledge, thirst and charm… and he couldn't set foot in the one thing that the Devil had forgotten to ask for.

The hand pulled back and within an instant, he disappeared into the waiting shadows of their man-made crypt.


	15. Yellow Rubber Gloves

Music was blaring at a decent volume. The radio was set on a folded towel on a counter that looked as though it hadn't been wiped down in years. Yellow, rubber gloves adorned his hands and the kid was shirtless, other than a pair of torn and oil-stained pants. His ass moved back and forth gracefully, arms coming up to hug his shoulders and body suddenly jarring with the sound in a series of quick movements and sensual head bangs that he must have practiced in front a mirror to get just right.

Marko nearly burst out laughing.

The dark and dower mood was ripped to shreds. The kid in the kitchen was siding back and forth on the worn and scratch tiles, singing in a loud (though not unpleasant) voice, all while simultaneously scrubbing at the blackened grease collected on each edge and burner of the stove.

"_Mary! Mary! Ya on my mind---yeaaaa!"_

It was… far from what he had expected. At the tracks, he could smell the weed on the kid and knew he had to come from the lower ends of town, but never suspected that they would be this low. The trailer was falling apart, torn on each side with scratches in the metal and one end steeping down further than the other. There were three windows, one covered by an air-conditioner, one smashed to pieces that were still collected upon the ground and the one they were hidden at now, squeezing behind a large and very prickly bush.

He couldn't see the living room, but he expected it to be in the same state as the kitchen was now. Or… had been, before the kid began to clean.

"_Your folks are gone and the place will be mine!"_

"He's actually pretty good…" Dwayne whispered under his breath, shooting the still-laughing Marko a glance before eyes rested upon David himself.

His eyes never left the view of the kid as he finished with the stove and started on the sink. He could feel his own lips beginning to twitch and a nervous laugh forming somewhere in his throat. His companions were met with a sharp growl, instead.

Moments passed… the song continued and the kid was working at break-neck speeds. Soapy water splashing everywhere though wiped up at the same time through the jarring towel that moved with his feet. All while singing, head-banging and using the broom as a partner for his twistedly glorifying dance. A soft chuckle passed through clenched teeth and lips, ones that had been wholly convinced on ripping through the kid's body and tearing him limb from limb.

The rubber gloves smacked together, splashing water all over the disgusting counter as the kid's hips moved with the sponge, as though he were trying to get more and more momentum with each stroke. Once or twice he would slow down just enough to glance toward the window and back into the deeper recesses of the trailer as though he heard a noise that didn't quite register in his mind.

Speaking of his mind, David silently began to focus his energy upon the boy. Slipping through the barrier of wild blonde hair, flesh and bone to reap the inner-sanctum of the stoner's mind. He got no more than a few millimeters before running into a wall of music.

No, it was a shrine. Sixties bands, the singers and famed guitarists lined up in a skewed order, shifting ranks with new songs that were produced, groups that fell apart and concerts that sucked major ass. But one thing never changed… Jim Morrison and the Doors were at the very top of the kid's list. Every song title memorized, poems fleeting here and there, and the fantasy of going to a concert, hidden beneath a wall of regret that had some strange connection to his father.

Interesting.

He began to pry deeper and it was at this point, humans could feel his presence within them. They didn't know what it truly was… only a threatening presence or an itch that wouldn't go away. The kid would react as expected: the jarring of his head coming to a sudden stop and eyes blinking as he shook his head and gazed down at the clean spot he had made in all the filth upon the counter.

Deeper and deeper into those thoughts… the kid's strange insecurities, his desires and the obsession he had with riding his own motorcycle. Again, connected to his father.

It was the moment that he had reached the innermost core that something inside him froze and thoughts became concave and brutally shattered with fear. Blue eyes blinked, body starting forward just a bit as a sudden rumble overtook the trailer, causing it to jar from side to side.

Was it collapsing?

Looks were passed between the trio, eyes locked to the kitchen and the kid who stood mute for a few moments before struggling to pull off the gloves and raise the broom.

He was speaking quickly, but David's intrusion had caused a moment of fault in that speech.

"Err--wait! No! Fuck man, I can turn it down!"

The jarring continued as what appeared to be a gorilla, appeared out of nowhere and made a beeline for the still-blaring radio. The kid was shoved aside and to the floor, broom flopping helplessly over his scrambling body and eyes watching with wide intensity as the man took his beloved… what did he call it… Rock Box?

"No! Fuck, Rick! Just wai--"

He reached the door as it happened. The box flying through the air as the guitar solo ended and the singer came back to---

SMASH.

Hard against the concrete and exploding into a million different pieces.

Shock. Cold and comfortless and causing him to become the next UFO as the man turned and gripped him by his shoulder with one hand, throwing a hard left with his other and cracking the boy in the jaw.

He fell hard against the side of the sloping porch, breaking through the battered railing and mercifully landing on the soggy mud below instead of the singe square of concrete that was littered with jagged ends. The man looked at the kid almost curiously for a moment before spitting against the ground before him and wiping his upper lip.

"I told you to keep that shit down," was all he said before turning back into the house.

Atop the trailer, crouching like beasts in the darkness, three pairs of eyes fell upon the kid in dismay. It took a moment for him to regain his thoughts, to see through the stars in front of his eyes and to reach up and gingerly touch the spot on his jaw where he had been hit, thankfully missing a half an inch and only bruising the flesh along the bone. Otherwise, he would have been missing some teeth.

It was Marko who broke the uneasy silence, whispering in a soft growl. "Fuck."

Vampires didn't have any sense of conscious… remorse or guilt. For the most part, Hollywood had struck gold on these two-bit facts but no one was perfect. Especially the Lost Boys.

It was one thing to kill a selfish, immature prick who only wanted to strike back at a person for beating him in a race. It was another to kill a kid whose entire existence was a race and was beat constantly when he didn't cross the finish line.

David sighed, standing and watching as the kid moved uneasily towards his radio, gathering jagged parts and pieces in his hands before moving towards the busted out window and dumping them inside.

"Not tonight."


	16. Zeppelin Gore

"I'm telling you, man, something's wrong. It's like someone's been watching me this entire week. I can't fucking shake this feeling off."

The Cold War of Silence had ended. Despite all the shit that had happened between them and the kid getting fucked up and loosing all of his seven-hundred and fifty dollars, Paul finally broke down and forgave his friend for being a complete idiot, calling the kid at one-thirty in the morning to ensure that his parents would be asleep. Apparently, his father had returned from the base and after hearing the kind of shit that Malaki had been pulling, put his son on "restrictions." Most of which included going to school everyday and never seeing Paul or anyone from the boardwalk again. Both of which were getting harder and harder to break. It was unbelievable but.. Paul was starting to miss their Sunday Ritual.

"_You didn't buy anything from Rick did you? I heard that his shit is all laced up with rat poison." _

Phone was balanced against his cheek as he slouched further into the already sagging couch that smelled of piss and other unspeakable horrors. It was amazing, watching His Royal Lard Ass peal his body from the decrepit furniture and stand for perhaps the first time all month. Apparently, the stashes were getting low, the liquor was consumed, Paul's mom was working the late shifts and Paul himself was still, technically, banned from the trailer. No choice but to surrender laziness for going out into the unusually warm night to fetch more drugs and booze.

And to hopefully get hit by a passing semi on the way.

"Nah, just Jones. And you know he's good on his shit. No man, this is different. I've just been feeling really weird and paranoid. I can't explain it."

"_Seriously dude, you sound like you need to get laid or something. ….Oh that's right, you're still a virgin. Don't wanna break that seal unless you really love her, huh?"_

"Shut up, Malaki."

"_Or are you just waiting for Maria to take pity on you?"_

"Shut _up, _Malaki."

"_You know, she'll probably give you some weird disease that'll make your penis fall of--" _

"…. Malaki?"

The kid's smart-ass comment was cut short as the line went dead. A prickle of sensation coursed down his spine as fingers played with the receiver, trying again and again to pick up a dial tone or voice on the other line.

Nothing.

Phone was tossed aside as the sensation continued through his fingertips, causing every hair on his body to stand on end and breathing to become sharp as he stared at the hazed screen. MTV, the closest he could get to the channel with snow cutting through the pictures of Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" video that had already been playing for over five minutes. No matter how many times they were reputed to being the greatest band ever, Paul really only enjoyed their music when he was stoned off his ass and the lyrics actually made sense. Otherwise, their shit was just long and pointless.

Despite this, the feeling wouldn't fade.

He could feel them… eyes staring through the darkness right at him. Something moving around inside his head and laughing at him quietly as he grew more and more anxious. Fingers tweezed nervously and gaze remained locked to the screen. If he didn't see it, didn't acknowledge it, then whatever the fuck it was, wouldn't exist.

And usually that kind of logic worked… when the shadows didn't start knocking at your front door.

The sound was hard and fierce; a fist slamming into that door and jarring it from side-to-side, causing Paul to jump from the couch and start for the window as though he half expected it to be Rick or one of his sellers. The man was well-known, but that didn't mean people liked him. The sound died, however, leaving the trailer in silence and the scream of Robert Plant's voice as he went into the eighty-ninth stanza of his epic song.

Heart pounded in his chest. Was it the cops? But they would be shouting and telling Paul to open the door or they else they would open fire.

No.. it was something different. Someone different.

Hesitating a moment longer, body finally regained enough feeling to move for the door and crack it open, revealing nothing more than the orange glow of the street lamp and an empty porch. Eyes blinked, the door opened wider as he gazed out fully and glanced around for any sort of presence or punk-ass kids lurking in the shadows. No one.

"Fucking punks," muttered as the door was slammed shut and body turned, moving back for his seat on the couch.

The knock came gain. Swifter, more violent than before and sending Paul reeling around to swing open that door and catch the bastards that were fucking with him.

Again, no one.

The air was silent and unusually warm. The soft flutter of wings from a dozen moths hovering around the orange glow of the street light were the only sounds that carried on the wind, other than the rocker's own feet as he stepped out on the porch and peered into the darkness. These fuckers were good; he gave them that much.

Scoffing, he turned back around and---

The hand reached out from behind the door, grabbing his arm and brutally digging nails into his flesh as he was swung around and forced back inside the trailer, toppling to the floor. The shout never made it past his throat as the kiss of black boots slamming into his stomach had body toppling over again and the raking sound of laughter and something… unreal, entered through his mind.

Fuck.

Mouth gasped, eyes bulged and somehow, he didn't need to look up to know who was standing above him, staring down with intense blue eyes and waiting for Paul's mind to stop reeling long enough to take a chance and make another stupid move so that his boot could meet with that quivering muscle once more. Nails scraped against the rugged carpet, face full of that wicked smell and teeth gritting as he felt the shadows of the others coming around him. He finally managed to look up.

Snow White. Otherwise known as David, or so he was told.

The man's gaze seared into the stoner's own, anger and something incredibly dark clouding those eyes as the bastard stood above him and smirked.

"You know, that bike was worth more than your life," he said, voice painfully calm.

Breath hissed through parted lips, hand reaching up to clamp over his stomach and hold the contents of a PB&J sandwich down for as long as he possibly could. Not that it really mattered; he was about to get his throat cut out, anyway.

Cold hands reached down from some unseen place behind him, clamping to his arms and dragging the stoner to his feet to face the man's gaze head on. Paul avoided looking at the other for as long as he could, glaring down at the boots that kicked him and feeling anger flush heavily on his face as he tried to fight through the pain with rising adrenaline. The only problem, however, was that he knew he deserved this beating. Totaling a rider's bike for nothing more than his own, simpering pride.

"Was that the only reason, Paul? Or were you trying to send me a message?"

Eyes blinked. The heavy shadow fell upon him and body began to grow cold as gaze lifted and finally took in the bastard's face. Up close, Paul could see that something was definitely off. He was too… perfect. People, especially those that lived in this shit-hole, were never this good-looking, this flawless. He looked no older than Paul, though features were somehow deepened upon his face; eyes sharp and distinct with a sense of confidence and knowing that didn't come with the same, juvenile arrogance that was seen in the stoner's own gaze when he got in front of a mirror close enough to notice it. It was something more.

And then… it was something unreal.

He couldn't describe what really happened. It would sound too crazy, as though he'd just spent the entire day hopping up on acid and speed. The man's face began to morph, twist into something so incredibly horrific that the eyes and mind couldn't tear itself away.

Demonic, that was the word.

The features that were deepened suddenly became sharp and full and the once blue eyes were a flaming yellow with red veins throbbing within. Mouth opened to reveal a set of fangs smirking at Paul, mocking his terror with the laughter of a thousand corpses and the smell of old blood.

He couldn't think to scream.

Couldn't feel to struggle or try and pull away.

There were more faces around him, smirking and mimicking his terrified expressions before fangs revealed themselves and bit sharply through his flesh. Tore it. Pealed it away from his bones and let his blood drain out slowly across the floor. It was a pain he never knew existed. A fear that he never thought possible because he always expected to be dead by this point, but it was that same rush that was keeping him alive.

He couldn't count the gashes, the pieces of flesh dropping to the floor or dripping from the mouths of those around him. He could feel himself growing faint, legs becoming jelly as they dropped out from beneath him and things taking an even grosser exaggeration as colors and sounds grew farther and farther away.

It was the leader that approached him last, fingers unraveling and moving to grip his chin and lift it upwards, baring that untouched neck. Paul always wanted to die with dignity, but at the last moment, he couldn't help but scream as the bite of fangs pierced through his throat and blood spurted in every direction around them, coating his face and body entirely.

Drowning him.

And waking his ass up.


	17. Marking

It was some kind of sick, erotic joke. Only someone horrifically twisted would play this kind of song at the exact moment those eyes opened and reality bore itself into his throbbing skull as though he'd taken an entire bottle of tequila the night before.

"_I hear the cottonwoods whisperin' above… Tammy… Tammy… Tammy's in love."_

Debbie Reynolds, "Tammy."

The woman's voice was soft and incredibly soothing, singing of love and the wilderness and some bitch's mother not agreeing with the husband that she chose. It was too much for him to think about at the moment and he couldn't help but feel a sudden, intense dislike for this woman and her newfound happiness. A fist came to slam against the buttons on the Rock Box, cutting off the sounds of the sweet melody and rendering the room in silence and the distant thunder in the background.

He was covered in sweat. An icy sheen soaked his entire body and the blankets that had been covering him through most of the night. Skin tingled with the slightest sensations and hands shook as he brought them up to cover his face.

A dream… it was all just a horrible dream.

Face grimaced as eyes stared through the sharp, gray light that filtered in from his open window. Hands scrambled as they dug through five-feet worth of notebooks, cassette tapes, porn magazines and empty bags of food, searching for the clock that would read half-past noon.

Eyes blinked and stared at the time a moment longer before groaning and tossing the clock aside. Fuck… what the hell happened last night? Had some of Jones' shit really been laced? Or did paranoia finally take it's toll and totally fuck with his mind while he slept?

A jagged sigh as face planted back against the edge of that dirty mattress, letting his body fall limp and back towards the recesses of sleep before suddenly---

"Jesus!"

The sharp sound of the phone shot through the room and his mind, blurring thoughts and senses before hands plunged back into the debris and dug out the white cord and receiver, hanging on by a twisted, wire-thread.

"_Dude, what the fuck happened to you last night?"_

The voice was small and indistinct, still causing Paul to wince as he listened and tried to figure out just who the hell it was. He should have guessed, however, for the shouting in the background and the roar of the television that was set to the news. Malaki. And apparently, the kid was making a secret phone call while his father was busy and his mother was drunk.

"What are you talking about, man? I was here all night."

His own voice startled him. Sore and throaty, as though he'd spent the better part of the night, screaming at the top of his lungs. Which, in a way, was true. At least in his dream, he had been.

"_I know that. I mean, what the hell happened to your phone? Did the line get cut or something? Or did you just not want to hear how pussy-whipped you were?"_

It took his mind a moment to register what had just been said. To think back to last night and remember the fatal details that had, until this point, seemed distant and far away. Malaki talking to him on the phone… the line going dead and then…

"Fuck.." breathed out in a single syllable as the phone was tossed down and body jolted to his feet. Rushing out of his room at a dangerously fast, delirious pace and almost colliding with the orange tabby cat that had been sleeping near by.

No, it was impossible. If it had really happened, he'd be dead, right? But then again… what if they had killed him and he was dead. What if this was his hell?

The trailer was dark and damp with open windows letting in the cool moisture of the rain. The smell of urine, sweat and something incredibly foul, assaulted his senses and nearly sent him reeling as he skimmed past the living room that bore the body of His Royal Lard Ass, and through the kitchen that had been dirtied once more, despite his efforts to please his mother and clean it. Down the miniature hallway and to the closet-sized bathroom containing a broken tub (don't ask) and a shower-head that didn't really spray out water anymore.

No wonder shit in this house stunk.

The mirror, however, was set against the bathroom door; full-length and surprisingly unbroken for as long as it had been resting there and slammed against the wall after each morning fight. Tearing off his soggy shirt and jeans, the rocker would stand bare save for checker-pattern boxers, studying his reflection as it stared back with a wild panic in those sky, blue eyes.

Despite his bravo and the confidence he could hold himself with in front of others, the image Paul saw staring back was never the one he cared to see. Thin… he tried to feed himself and work out each day (which consisted mostly of running from the cops and lifting heavy shit from the junkyard) but despite his efforts, one meal wasn't enough to sustain him. Muscle was etched lightly upon his body, barely peaking out in some places on his chest and arms--nothing to truly be proud of.

But looking himself over like a self-conscious, sixteen-year-old girl was not the reason he'd squeezed himself into the crawl-space. He had to make sure… it could be a coincidence, every last bit of it. Though somewhere, deep down in the darkest recesses of his mind and soul, Paul knew that it wasn't.

Everything had been too real. Too detailed and defined in anguish that caused the hairs on his body to rise, just by thinking about it. Silently, his body twisted and turned eyes gazed into the mirror, looking for bites, missing flesh, markings---anything!

Heart began to slow as calloused fingertips slid away from his chest and stomach, finding nothing, not even a scratch to convict Snow White and her two bastard dwarves. Breathing came out in deep shudders and all too quickly, the world began to tilt and spin. He was exhausted, though he couldn't think of why.

Drugs. Jones had pulled a fast one on him, sold him some shit that had been pillaged, chopped and filled in with rat poison, just to give it extra spice. Probably something he brought from across the border from a Drug Lord trying to save money. That bastard.

But still… it was better than being attacked by vampires.

Forehead pressed further against the mirror and eyes opened to catch his own gaze staring back at him, pale and looking as though he would fall back and pass out at any moment. Eyes flicked to the side, catching a strange shadow that appeared on his neck and staring for close to two minutes before finally leaning back and brushing back long, dirty-blond locks to reveal the purple bruise.

The mind tried to reason. Spider bite. Very, _very _big spider bite. One that matched the distance and scale of two human, canine teeth. And a bite that already healed over into a scar, but the bruising was still sensitive enough to act as though it had been freshly given, right at the base of his neck.

Fingers twitched and reached up, grazing across the surface of flesh and feeling a sudden, zinging sensation that went through his entire body like electricity. Breath shuddered as he tried it again, wincing at it's sensitivity and feeling the same, stinging zing coursing beneath his flesh and calling the blood up to his veins as they protruded from the surface of his skin.

"Oh fuck.. Fucking… vam…"

The word was caught in his throat. A sudden realization dawning and all the little rumors and stories about the teenage jukes on the beautiful bikes with their beautiful faces and eyes, becoming true.

They were vampires.

And Paul had bitten by their leader.


	18. Family Meeting

Light.

He'd never cared for it, personally. Even as a human, he'd hidden away from the golden glow of the sun, burying himself deep within a man-made cellar where experiments were tested and a new-age form of alchemy (one that would never reach the history books), was discovered and practiced thoroughly.

And they say that wise men never tell any lies.

The crystal glass was studied beneath the soft glow of the candle. Each pattern of light that reflected off it's surface was studied and pondered over. Wondering if perhaps God was truly held within these particles and atoms. If that was the reason why he could never step out into the sun or even gaze upon it's glory without feeling a clench in his stomach and a deep terror within his veins.

Wondering if Jewish vampires feared the six-pointed star just as his boys feared the cross and all manner of Holy propaganda.

Things were different in his time. Christ wasn't conceived and there was a sense of old blood in the air. As though the bodies of the fallen Gods and Goddesses were reaped within the ground itself; forever soiling and tainting earth until it had become the chaotic and crazed planet that he inhabited today.

But philosophy had never truly interested him on those accounts. Not merely for the fact that his age prevented him from believing many of the mysticism, theories and ideas fashioned today, but also that he had no one to really talk with him about it. To fall into deep conversation and cause time itself to stand on end as each word was thought over, conceived and the mind began to grow in perspective to another's passions and truths.

It was the hard jar to the table that finally knocked him from his trance, allowing eyes to stare up at the three forms that had come to circle around his table, each looking entirely out of place in such a romantic setting as this Italian Restaurant and fine-dining cuisine.

His boys.

David, Marko and Dwayne. Each taken at the height of each century with their boyish innocence stolen away and replaced by a hunger that was constantly throbbing within their veins.

Max nodded and motioned towards the table for them to sit. Naturally, David sat across from him while his boys chose their respective sides and scooted as close as they could to their leader, treating Max to dark, hungry gazes and an air of boredom as the menus were placed down before them by an exasperated waiter and another bottle of wine was ordered.

It was curious to see them, David's fledglings and how they had adapted to this modern world just as easily as they adapted to their own almost two-hundred years ago. Young predators, vicious and unforgiving, still hungry for blood and human suffering with all the curiosity that youth continued to give them.

It was Marko that was the most disturbing as he was the youngest in appearance though nearly as old as David himself and still with his boyhood graces and prestige. The name Dorian Gray briefly came to mind when one saw him, but a single glance into those large, green eyes would tell a story much different than a man who had learned to live in youth without sin for many long, twisted years.

But it was Dwayne who worried him most. The Desert Dweller. The quiet philosopher who could spend nights in complete silence, staring at the stars or speaking in tongues with the desert creatures. Trying to understand nature as he was his new life. He was bright, but plagued with something deep inside that quelled and quenched itself in each victim that he took. Max had watched him on a lone hunt once or twice in the past. The man moved swiftly, sometimes killing for hunger and other times, for pleasure or for pain. He was compassionate however, delaying the moment until it suited the human's most erotic desires and then striking when it was least expected.

A predator at bay.

He appeared more interested than Marko at the lavish settings of the restaurant and it's occupants, giving charming smiles to the women that caught his eye.

It was David, however, that kept his gaze locked upon Max himself and appeared more tense than usual. Something was on his mind but in natural stubbornness, he wouldn't say a word about it until Max demanded that he did.

The wine arrived and glasses set before each boy, the waiter hesitating only momentarily when he reached Marko's seat. Seventeen years old and despite his height, the boy looked every inch of his age. It took only a gentle psychic-nudge, however, to have the man setting the glass before him and sloshing the red wine into it's fine, crystal hold.

The silence continued as he made them all wait until he'd tested the amber liquid, leaned back in his seat and lit a fresh Salem, exhaling the gray-blue smoke into the already dim and hazy air. Marko sipped idly at the drink before leaning over his plate to let the substance dribble out slowly from those lips, watching it splash along the cool surface and draw pictures in it with his knife and fork. A nasty habit he'd learned a human and never quite broke away from. Dwayne continued to stare and flirt with the occasional passerby and David seemed all but lost within his thoughts. At least, until Max cleared his throat.

"Six bodies found on the coast. Three male, three female and all baring the same signature of bites along the throat and bodies drained of blood. The vampire saga continues," quoting the morning paper, not to mention the evening news that had been on earlier when he'd risen from his tomb.

Marko flinched, Dwayne continued to look away and David smirked.

"You know, for being here only a couple of months, we certainly are making quite an impression upon the humans. Almost as if we want them to discover us, don't we boys?" an edge to his voice as he continued to stare into those striking blue eyes that mirrored his own. It was one thing that David had truly had over the elder vampire, his sense of confidence and an arrogance that was on solid foundation.

"Humans have short-term memories. It'll be forgotten in a month."

Tension drew itself into a fine line across his forehead and curved delicately around that mouth. For all his son's skill and experience, he was still very much a creature of pure lust and wild ambitions. The only difference was now he knew how to get away with it more easily.

He needed to be put back into his place.

"You think something like this is funny, David? Amusing? That the humans should discover what we are after only a few months and, if not destroying us, forcing us to move back out into the wilderness and sleep our nights way in putrid cellars and the earth." Voice continued with a tone of anger and glasses glinted softly in the light. "This territory didn't come without a price, you know."

A price of blood and one that David might recall wasn't an easy thing to obtain.

The smirk was gone and replaced with a teenage sense of impatience, hearing the same things over and over again each time that he and his fledglings made a distinct marking on their grounds.

Max tried for a more reasonable approach. "The least you could have done was hidden the bodies well enough to not be discovered for awhile. Dump them into the ocean, burn them, do whatever your black little hearts' desire but another incident like this is going to have the federal agencies coming down here and our little family split up on opposite corners of the U.S."

He could feel David tense at the mentioning of splitting up. It was never an easy thing, living in a clan for so long and then being forced out into the cold, black world alone. The life of a vampire was one of blood and loneliness. Eternity means nothing if one is forced to send it alone.

The silence continued but consent was seen within three sets of eyes. Submitting for the moment, at least to make him happy.

"Which brings me to my next point…" Eyes locking with David's and holding his son's stare like a cobra holds it's prey. "… Is there some specific reason you are keeping that blonde, trailer park boy alive?"

Tension immediately returned to those broad shoulders and though he tried to mask it, a sense of knowing would appear in those blue eyes, immediately giving intentions away.

"You mean to keep him alive?" he asked, pressing forward lightly with a confused look.

"Not for long," David shrugged as he leaned back, trying to cover his previous mistakes with white lies that the elder could tear through in an instant.

"You marked him."

"So no one else could have him."

"Who else would want him, David?"

It was a taunt, enough to get a better picture of his Son's intentions. When a vampire marks a human, it's always a special thing. Whether it be for death or otherwise, the human is chosen and somewhat reflected on the vampire's tastes and morals. As though they were taking a lover instead of a victim or childe.

"I really don't think it's any of your business what I do with him, _Max_," Spoken in a mild tone, barely containing his anger at being spied on.

"When the human knows exactly what we are and possibly how to find us, it becomes my business, _David._ I don't have to tell you to pick up your toys or I'll take them away. Got me?"

The challenge hung within the air, causing Dwayne to shift uncomfortably and Marko to glance back and forth between the two as though he expected each to break out in a sudden, physical attack. David remained still, meeting his Sire's gaze with a deep seeded anger and understanding that went back to the years that he had first been turned and set loose on the world.

He may have been powerful, but power went only so far when placed against a creature that knew him inside and out and could, if desired, read his very thoughts, feelings and memories on whim. Destroy him with nothing more than a wink.

In careful movements, he stood and the boys followed immediately in suit, pushing back their chairs and ambling out of the restaurant that was quite relieved to see them go.

A soft sigh would part pale lips as cigarette was put out against the edge of his plate.

Loneliness could make a person do the damnedest things.


	19. Memories and Swift Rejection

She was a dream.

Lindsey Dirk, otherwise known (at least, until she hit major puberty in high school) as Lindsey Dork; a once frumpy girl with large glasses and blond hair put up in pigtails each day in the same, depressing style as was her entire attitude. Paul had known her since elementary school. The strong, silent type. She'd sit out, by herself or with one of her dolls, near the swing set and gather all the rocks around her, making a giant circle around herself. This was the reason she was silent but the reason for being strong was the fact that not once, no matter how many times the boys came over and kicked her rocks away, stole one of her dolls or pulled her ridiculous pigtails, had she ever shed a single tear.

At least, not until one day in seventh grade when a boy named Bobby Tailer, dumped an entire tray of food down upon the front of a very nice dress she had worn to school that day. Paul hadn't known what the occasion was, but at the time he could remember thinking it was kind of nice. She'd opened up more with the kids around her and seemed to be making a few friends. All of that wasted in the instant that an entire cafeteria of a hundred-plus students broke out in wild laughter at seeing the girl humiliated.

Still, very quietly and very precisely, she had gotten up from her table, taken her tray over to the garbage and left the room.

Pal hadn't given it much thought after that, turning back with his friends who were still jeering and stuffing food down their throats. It was only an hour later after retreating from the courtyard to the boys bathroom, did he discover Lindsey.

In the _boys _bathroom.

It was unheard of, a girl standing amidst the urinal stalls, wadded up paper towels containing piss and other unmentionable fluids, vapid graffiti and Paul himself who seemed to be frozen in place. He himself hadn't truly been a saint to the girl, spreading the rumor at six years old that she had rabies and should be avoided at all costs.

But somehow, those pigtails had come unraveled from her head and draped along her shoulders like wisps of gold caught within the wind. Her glasses had been removed and hands were up, covering her face as tears spilled out from large, sky-blue eyes. It was their color, set against the puffy redness of her fragile face, that caught him off-guard. And it caused his heart to flutter even more as they turned and stared directly at him, searing through his flesh.

She must have remembered the rabies thing. Pouting lips turned downwards in a sharp display of disgust while eyes narrowed harder at Paul and a voice he'd never remembered hearing before, choked out with an undertone of rage. "What?"

He was at a loss for words. Girls had always held a strange interest for Paul, even as a kid. He pulled their hair, put worms down their shirts and kicked up mud and sand at their faces before he learned how to flirt and get them to smile. Lindsey had never really held an interest for him. He'd never really gotten a good look at her face.

"You're… in the boys bathroom," stated dumbly as a hand reached back and brushed through his wild mess of hair.

Her nose sniffed loudly and she turned to look back at the mirror. "So?"

"So… I kinda have to pee."

Her face seemed to flush a deeper color and those eyes avoided staring at Paul's through the reflection of the mirror. "So, use the stall."

He couldn't help but make a face. "No way! That's only if you have to shit-- I mean.. crap."

Her eyes finally glanced up and caught his reflection staring back at her through that glass. It was an uneasy moment, silence twisting through them both before a smile began to blossom on those lips and hair fell forward in her face to cover the laugh that was falling almost musically upon the air. Paul couldn't ever recall hearing her laugh, either.

Despite this, he couldn't help but grin and laugh as well, not sure as to what was funny but it was easier than standing like an idiot and waiting for her to leave.

It ended too soon, however, as eyes fell back to her own reflection, staring at her puffy face and her stained dress that was covered in cold chili meat and beans. A look of despair came over those eyes and before he knew it, Paul was stepping through the wads of used towels and pooled piss, stepping over to Lindsey Dork and pulling those hands away from her sobbing face.

"Hey… it's not that bad. It'll probably come off if you wash it enough," he said, looking down at the mess and suddenly noticing the ample cleavage that was peaking against the silky material.

"It's not that," she sniffled, reaching up to wipe her nose on the back of her hand. "I asked him out yesterday and he told me he would give me his answer at lunch today."

Tears burst forth from a new seam in those eyes as she quickly looked away, trying to hide her embarrassment and failing horribly while Paul stood, looking mortified.

She'd asked him out and he dumped fucking cafeteria food on her? What kind of sick freak did that instead of just telling her no?

"So.. I came in here to escape the gaping parade of girls that were trying to follow me," she finished, reaching for a paper towel and finding none.

Paul looked around as well, finding nothing but a gigantic wad near the door smelling like something incredibly foul. He offered her his shirt, instead.

It was an awkward moment, one that caused those pretty eyes to blink and hands to hesitantly take the offered cloth, blotting the tears upon her cheeks with nervous movements before letting it fall back into place along his chest and stomach. There was another moment of silence, as though both realizing they'd just come into contact with the other's body and blushing hard at such a notion.

Paul was the first to recover as he strained his wet shirt and checked that cleavage one last time before forcing eyes to the girl's own.

"I'm gonna kick his fucking ass."

It was obvious she was the kind of girl who grew up in a sheltered home with dozens of restrictions binding her to the pigtails she wore and the silence she bared, like a heavy iron ball strapped to her ankle. The words "fucking" and "ass" made her flinch and those large eyes would stare up at Paul in wonder before shaking her head quickly.

"No, you don't have to, Paul," she said nervously.

"You don't deserve to be treated like that."

"But--"

Before she could say anything else, and without thinking which was entirely normal for the adolescent stoner, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her cheek. It was so sudden, so out of the blue that it caused them both to stumble back and Paul to stumble out the door, charging down the hall and looking for Bobby.

He wasn't part of the "cool crowd." Not entirely. All the popular girls seemed to like him because of his bad language and "funked-out" hair though the jocks and other high-class kids seemed to think him nothing more than a punk. A stoner who would be found washed up one day in the gutter, drowning on his own vomit and blood.

Not that it wasn't true to some extent. These were the years that Paul had started experimenting with Malaki and the other wannabe hippies in school. Testing the bounds of the human mind and body; learning what it could take and what it absolutely could not.

He didn't really remember if he'd been on something that day. The lights always seemed to be dimmed or hazed in these kinds of memories, but it was the blaring light from the sun that had encased Bobby's face as he stood at the end of the basketball court, dribbling and passing the ball to a couple of his friends.

A numb hand came out to shove him, sending those legs stumbling forward before a mountain of a body turned and eyes squinted towards Paul's own.

The stoner was blunt. "I saw what you did to Lindsey, you prick. Go apologize before I kick your ass."

For a moment, Bobby had looked entirely startled. Those eyes squinted further towards Paul and a sneer came across that face as though the very mention of the girl was enough to bring an awful taste to his mouth. Paul felt his hands clench into fists.

"I mean it," he growled.

The sneer turned into a scorning laugh. "What for?"

Though he would never admit it, Paul would never have won if it weren't for the element of surprise. Bobby was bigger than him, a linebacker on the football team and all-around hero at the school which allowed him to get away with murder and dumping trays of food on girl's dresses.

Before the words had left his mouth entirely, a fist was coming to meet it. Again and again and again. Until Paul was pulled back by a mass of bodies and woke long enough from that hazed dream to see the blood dripping from his fingers and Bobby lying unconscious against the hard concrete of the court.

It had been the same week of school that he'd been suspended and, with the threat of a lawsuit hovering over his head, had never returned.

He'd never gotten to see the look on Lindsey's face after beating up the guy she wanted to be her boyfriend. After giving her that kiss and feeling like a fool for days afterwards, unsure of his feelings and wanting nothing more than to call her up and ask her out. Ask her if it was okay to come back to school.

He hadn't even picked up the phonebook.

And now, standing outside the hamburger stand, heart was racing wildly in his chest as he waited for the customers to leave and a chance to slide in from the corner and catch that sky-blue gaze.

* * *

"Paul?"

The name was startled as it left those icy-pink lips. The same blue eyes, no longer burdened with heavy frames from those glasses, blinking repeatedly as she stared into that familiar face.

"Hey Lindsey," spoken with the most charming smile he could muster.

Puberty had done a lot for the girl during the past few years. The pigtails were gone, as though never having existed and replaced entirely by blonde, frosted hair that was piled in a cute, if not exasperated pony-tail. Body had grown nicely into those once, awkward curves and pale flesh had become bronze from what he guessed were days spent on the beach, in the sun.

"Oh my god, I can't believe it's really you!"

She'd become the enemy. The peppy, popular girl that she had once loathed from her little corner of the swing set, making rock circles and clutching at those cheap, dirty dolls. Her voice held a cheeriness that could only be learned from being nice to so many people she thought would turn in an instant and sink a knife into her back. Her smile was more of a gleam.

"Yea, I saw you around the boardwalk a couple of times, thought I'd come up and say hi."

It had been more than a couple of times, to be sure. Ever since the nightmare, Paul had been spending every waking moment away from that trailer and out in the open, in the sun, that he was sure would protect him. He hadn't recognized Lindsey at first, but stalking a person had ways of bringing those repressed memories and faces back.

"Wow.. Gosh, it's been, like… five years, hasn't it?"

Christ, she even had the same movements as the popular girls that frequented the boardwalk: pressing her hand to her forehead and brushing those bangs out of her eyes in a cute, yet annoying kind of way.

"Yea, five years," he continued to grin as fingers reached up and played with the straw dispenser.

"Wow. You look… great," lying with that perky smile on her face.

Paul didn't mind it that much, though it didn't take but a single glance in the reflection of that aluminum dispenser to remind him of how thin his body had gotten. Times were growing hard; His Royal Lard Ass had been busted for selling drugs and everything, even the weed that Paul had stashed beneath his porn magazines, had been taken. And unfortunately, no drugs meant no money and no money meant no food. At least until the bastard could reorganize his techniques and find the rat that had given them all away.

Oh, and after he had beaten Paul to a pulp, throwing him from one end of the trailer to the next before throwing him out all together.

He knew it would eventually come to him living on the streets and beneath his own motorcycle, but it didn't make her words any sweeter or that smile anymore false upon his own face.

"Thanks. You do too."

"Everyone said that you were arrested. That day when you.. you know, beat up Bobby," the blush against her cheeks caused his own to suddenly spark.

"Nah, just suspended. The parents threatened to have me locked up but it fell through when I didn't come back to school. Just decided to quit," he shrugged.

Her nod was almost robotic, as though hearing what he said and yet, not understanding a word. Or not really caring. Fuck, she was so hot though.

"Hey… I was wondering, if you're getting off work soon, maybe we could share a few burgers and take a ride. … I have a motorcycle," spoken in something of a wince for how weak it sounded. How the pleading in his eyes must have somehow gotten caught within his words and the fact that he wanted her to steal him some burgers was flashing like a bright, neon sign above his head.

All this easily seen as she blinked for a moment and opened that mouth in an instant rejection, though catching herself before it came out too harsh.

Paul was the kid whose shirt she had cried on, whose honor that she had saved and who had given her first kiss.

All that and she couldn't even sum up a cheesy, half-assed smile to ease the pain. "Oh.. I don't think so, Paul. I have a boyfriend--he's coming to pick me up pretty soon."

He knew it was coming, that all his time spent following her around and watching the way her curves met the sunlight and that pink bikini were in vain. That all the fantasies and idle day-dreaming only caused him more ache now than ever before. That she had been the only thing keeping him sane while out on the streets, dodging drug-sellers and the night that had crept up swiftly over the horizon.

Fingers twitched as they fell to his neck, rubbing over that scar and immediately feeling a sudden zing of energy passing through his body, causing him to shudder.

No.. it was all just a nightmare. Every moment of that night was nothing more than a bad trip and the scars were left from a scorpion or something that had stung him during the night, causing the hallucinations. And Lindsey was only rejecting him because she knew if she got too attached, she would never be able to live without Paul by her side.

Right.

"Oh, well that's cool, I guess," eyes staring down at the counter, doing everything in his power to seem bored with her decision, as though it really hadn't mattered. "Could I still skim a couple burgers from you?"

For the second time, he could feel those eyes fluttering and mouth opening to tell him to "fuck off" but the memory of that kiss flashing through her mind and keeping icy words at bay. Hell, he considered it to be a reasonable request after restoring her honor and gritting teeth through her rejection.

"Oh, Paul.. I wish I could. But my manager doesn't like it if I give away food. I could get into trouble," spoken with a slight wince, as though it really pained her to reject him twice in one night. "Sorry."

He tried to pretend it was the food that hurt the most. That it wasn't her pretty eyes, those racked tits or angel-like face that caused him such grief and pain. Body stiffened, doing his best to gather what remained of his shattered pride and hope, and simply shrug.

"Whatever," as cold as he could possibly make it before turning away and moving down a random direction on the boardwalk.

Fuck.

Fuck-fuck-fuckity-fuck!

How could he be so stupid? How could he honestly think she would be the same girl after gaining such a hot body and looks that could shoot a man dead in the heart with a single, starry-eyed glance, would ever go for a guy like him? A low-life druggie who was scrapping like a hungry dog on the streets, looking through dumpsters for food.

His plan had been so perfect, so fool-proof that he'd honestly believed she could fall for a guy like him. That he could feed two hungers at once and live some kind of fairy-tale, "happy-ending" with a girl like her at his side.

Fucking idiot.

Legs walked unsteadily down one alley and then the next. Stumbling here and there as the weight of his heart and growling stomach caused him to forget where the hell he was going or that there was suddenly a body right in front of hi--

"Shit, watch where the fuck you're going!"

His mouth spoke faster than his mind as chest collided with the statue figure, sending him back a few good feet and reeling into a nearby wall. Teeth grit, fists clenched and like that day with Bobby, he felt a fire rise deep within his chest. One that was extinguished the minute those eyes glanced up and caught the sight of the one he had stumbled head-first into.

The scar on his neck began to burn.


	20. Firelight Madness

"Fuck, I don't want any trouble!"

They had him surrounded. Snow White standing at the front while her two dwarves gathered like devious henchmen, faces masked by shadows though Paul felt the cool tones of their eyes upon his body, causing hair to prickle and stand on end. An icy sweat immediately began to pour down his body and legs that had been tensed to run, immediately became nothing more than wobbly stocks of jelly, hardly able to keep him balanced, let alone standing.

This was it. They'd finally come to finish him.

Despite his fear, there was a cold comfort in knowing that it was soon going to be over. That for the past week he'd been so fucking paranoid and walking on egg shells, just waiting for the world to crash down upon his head. The only upside of the entire situation was all the time spent in the sun had given him a decent tan. And hopes of being with a girl that was clearly out of his league.

Well, he had the tan, anyway.

Body tensed as it hit the cool, brick wall behind him. Feeing the roughness of those clay stones beneath curling fingers and trying to sum up the courage to stand and fight. Hunger, however, took away his strength and heartbreak made him uncaring. Almost welcoming the chance to feel some real, physical pain.

Breath was caught in his throat as David came forward, feeling the man's presence like a strange pulse throughout his body; thrumming deeply in his mind. The scar at his neck began to burn and a single image of Count Dracula came to mind; standing in his pale glory and widow's peak over the helpless woman, staring deeply into her eyes before biting just as deep into her neck.

The spray of black and white blood dripped in slow moving streams from his smiling mouth.

The bag crinkled as it was held up. The smell was instantly overwhelming: grilled meat, sloped with seasonings and placed between two buns, complete with ketchup, mustard, tomato's, lettuce and onions.

But there was more.

Curly fries, spiked with orange seasoning and greased to perfection as they claimed their rightful place next to the burger, surrounded by dozens of packets of ketchup and warm napkins, as though it were an alter. Paul could feel his mouth watering slowly as he opened his eyes and stared at the white bag. Jake's Grill, the best damn place to eat in Santa Carla.

"What did you do? Spit in it?" asked in a spiteful tone.

It was too good to be true. The reward for trashing another guy's bike wasn't a bag full of greasy, irresistible food. They'd probably poisoned the burger and spit all over the fries. But then again… spit wasn't _all _that bad.

"What the fuck is your problem? Why do you think everyone is out to get you?" asked by the man at David's right, the one with the mop of Shirley Temple curls and an outstanding, embroidered jacket. And thank God it was twilight, something like that in broad daylight could blind a person.

Paul scoffed. "Oh, like I'm suppose to trust you guys?"

The kid stepped further into the orange glow of the street lamp. From a distance, he looked normal. The average seventeen-year-old street punk, making a statement with his loud jacket and tight, riding leathers. But up close, skin was far paler than it should have been and eyes that should have held a youthful brightness were clouded with a sense of knowing.

"We already got you back for that, don't worry," he said with the beginning of a slow, wolfish smile.

"Marko."

The tone was steadfast and hard, blue eyes resting for a moment on his companion and some sort of silent signal given to make the kid back off. Paul could feel his own heart in his ears as he felt those eyes turn back upon him and the bag held up once more.

Fuck.

* * *

"So your dad was actually one of the leaders of the Hell's Angels?"

The waves were lapping slowly at the shore, coming closer and closer to the burning embers of the fire that had been abandoned some time earlier on the beach. Apparently a party that had been busted, there were still unopened cans of beer, sandals and other debris left within the area.

For being either poisoned or spit on, the burger tasted incredible. Inhaled in three bites, it was washed down with a luke-warm beer while the fries were drowned in ketchup and devoured just as quickly. It was the first time he felt full all week. The first time his stomach didn't howl out in desperation over the lack of food in his body and slowly he could feel his strength beginning to return.

A nod was given towards the question that had been asked by the one named Dwayne. "Well, not a major leader or anything. But he had his own small group and, I guess, _section _of the Hell's Angels. My grandfather was leader in it too."

The man nodded and seemed to smile. Or maybe it was only the flicker of the flames.

"He must have been a strong man, to lead a gang like that," spoken by David as he sat, twirling what looked to be a hemp necklace, between his fingers.

Paul shrugged, finishing off the last of the fries. "I guess. I don't really know much about him, except for what my grandpa told me and my…"

A pause caused that icy stare to fall upon him and mind to become even more caught up in the memories of his mother screaming at him as a child. Telling him it was all his fault that "daddy" was dead.

"… My mom."

Their silence and the look on their faces made his skin crawl. And yet, it was the first time in weeks he'd had a full meal and been in the presence of others that weren't out to sell him drugs or beat the ever-living piss out of him for money that he owed. Malaki was still confined to his house until his father was shipped off again and Laddie had been accepted at some run-down daycare.

Though he'd never admit it, Paul was really starting to miss the twerp.

"Sounds like she doesn't really appreciate you."

The voice caught him off-guard and body snapped from it's trance, eyes staring up and into the electric blue hues of David's own."

"Huh?"

"Your mother. It sounds like she doesn't really appreciate you."

"No fucking shit," he nodded, bringing a knee up and curling an arm around it. "She hates my fucking guts."

"Why?"

"Cause I killed the party when I was born."

"Then maybe you should kill her."

It was so random. So out of the blue that Paul wasn't even sure he'd heard it at all. Eyes snapped away from the dancing flames and stared at David. The man's face was calm and contemplative while fingers continued to twirl that necklace around.

Paul shook his head. "What?"

There were beads woven within the hemp itself, catching the light from the fire and shining softly in his eyes. He tried to keep his stare towards David but the damn things kept distracting him. The scar at his neck began to throb once more.

"I said, maybe you should kill her. From what it sounds like, she's done nothing but bring you misery, Paul."

Voice was soft but firm. The kind that a person doesn't question simply because they don't need to. It's already trusted.

But what the fuck? Kill his mother? And risk going to prison for life or getting the electric chair?

"Dude, I don't know what the fuck your getting at here… I mean, yea, she's fucking horrible to me but---"

"Life would be so much easier with her gone," as though he were finishing Paul's sentence.

The necklace continued to turn. The shadows danced around them and it occurred blearily to Paul that there was movement happening on both sides of his body. But fuck if he couldn't look away from this damn thing!

"Well… yea.." spoken in a whisper.

Mind was trying to reason. He'd go to prison, he'd be a murderer, forever condemned in the eyes of everyone he met and God (if there was one). But life _would _be a lot easier if his mother simply jumped off a cliff. Especially if Paul were there to give her a good shove.

"With her dead, you wouldn't have to put up with that bastard living in your trailer. There'd be enough food and enough money to get you by without him injecting it into both their veins."

Hands. They were gripping his shoulders tightly, ripping his shirt and craning his neck to the side. But he couldn't fight it. Could hardly feel it and truly didn't give a damn, anyway.

All that was left was David's voice and the glittering of those beads as the caught the light and twirled.

"She would be dead and you would be free, Paul. Free to do whatever you wanted. To sleep all day and party all night."

There was a sharp prick of pain and the beads became soaked in a deep, red hue. Burning through his retinas as though they were embers from the fire itself. Moving, spiraling, drawing him in and taking back the strength he'd gotten from the free meal.

"To never grow old…"

Faster and faster. He could feel himself crumbling slowly into the sand; the heat from the fire scorching his face and eyes barely managing to stay locked on that necklace as the last bit of strength was drained from him.

"_And never die…"_

* * *

"PAUL."

Eyes snapped open as the hand waved in front of his face and body nearly jolted from his seat upon the log. The motion had the form closet too him stumbling back with a sharp glare that was captured in those large, green eyes.

"Jesus! Are you some kind of light-weight?"

Marko. The kid had been standing over him, snapping his fingers and waving that hand in front of his eyes to try and snap the man from his trance. Instead, he reached down past Paul, taking up the unfinished beer and drinking it down in a single chug.

"Fuck." Spoken dizzily as he reached up and brushed a hand through sweaty locks of tangled, blonde hair. "What were we talking about again?"

He had to quit buying shit from Jones. The man was sneaking something into his weed.

"We were asking if you wanted to go up to Hudson's bluff. Unless…" there was something sinister in the way the little blonde freak smiled. "You're scared."

The smile on his face broadened and Paul scoffed. "I ain't fucking scared. Count me in."

"Alright then, boys. Let's ride," said David, rising to his feet.

Paul could have sworn he saw a hemp necklace, dangling from his wrist.


	21. Resurrection

The cave was enormous. A sunken-in pit surrounded by large boulders, broken tapestries, a grounded chandelier and an assortment of furniture that had been gutted out by various manners of bird and animal creatures that had passed on through. The waves crashed against the walls repeatedly, mimicking thunder or the sound of a human heart.

"Fucking shit… I never knew this place was out here," Paul said, stepping through the low entryway and staring in marvel at all that stood before him.

It was empty, but already garbage cans had been retrieved along with assorted goods that looked to have been stolen straight form the beach. Surf-boards, lawn chairs, bikini bottoms and even a few crinkled and water damaged posters.

David turned back with a smile. "You mean, you never even heard of this place?"

Paul shrugged. "Nah, people don't like the woods around here. Some weird myth about a flying monster that hides in the trees, watching your every move before it swoops down and rips you right off of the ground. Don't know if it's true or not, but people have gone missing out here."

The man's smile broadened but he said nothing. It was Dwayne that cut in the silence to give the full story of the cave that they stood in.

"It was the hottest resort in Santa Carla during the early 1900's. Around 1906, when the earthquake hit, the ground opened up and this place fell through entirely, killing thousands of people," there was a hint of a smile on his face and in those deep, brown eyes.

Paul couldn't really see what was so funny but he gave a smirk and a shrug to comply. "Must have sucked for them, huh?"

Moonlight streamed in from the ceiling, casting pale shadows around the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Paul caught the reflection of something glittering within the dirt. At first he thought they were beer cans until taking a few steps closer and seeing one of the most horrible sights in his entire life.

The bike.

David's bike. Scattered in pieces along the ground with a multi-colored goop hardened to a thick crust along the insides and crystallizing quickly as the humid nights melted the sugar and reformed it over and over again. The stoner felt a cool chill travel down his spine and David's eyes staring at him from across the room, knowing exactly what Paul was seeing.

To further the anguish, however, he couldn't help but be drawn closer to the empty frame of the bike itself, staring at the insignia along the side and shuddering deeply to see the name upon it.

Custom built Black Shadow, vintage low-rider that was built entirely for speed and picking up chicks on a whim. Like sex on wheels, it glowed from it's darkened corner of the cave, drawing Paul closer and yet, he could feel the sudden electricity in the air.

David had drove Marko's bike, forcing the kid to take the bitch's seat and suffer through the humiliation of such a position as they took a wild ride down along the beach, through the pillars of the boardwalk and finally through the forest.

Paul could only imagine the man's disappointment was somewhere close to his own when he'd lost his seven-hundred dollars and was forced to remain in Santa Carla until he could find the money and balls to leave it.

He felt the shadows behind him stir. "Why'd you do it? You didn't have any reason to hate me---I beat you fair at that race."

Turning, eyes found David's own and for a single moment, the man looked as though he were about to change his mind on the whole "friendship" deal or whatever the hell this was. Paul honestly had no idea why they'd brought him food. Why they brought him to this kickass cave and why now he felt like such a lowly piece of shit for doing something that seemed so brilliant at the time.

This time, he managed to look away and shake his head. "I don't know. … I guess I honestly thought that if I got revenge on you, I got revenge on everyone that had fucked me over in life."

It wasn't the answer David was looking for--that much was clear from the way he scoffed and turned. Paul panicked for a moment, wondering if this all was a set up. If everything had been for his benefit and now the walls were about to come crashing down just as they had over eighty-five years ago in this fucking hotel.

"I know it doesn't amount to shit but… I'm sorry."

Blue eyes glanced back, over his shoulder.

Paul tried again. "I'm really… _really _sorry."

The look was cast in shadow as he turned back and moved out of cave entirely. Tension increased into an uncomfortable silence until Marko managed to rig up a dusty radio, flipping the buttons and playing with the tuner until he managed to find a station with only minimal static interference.

Dwayne disappeared to a far off corner and began to study Paul as the rocker moved closer to the bike itself, taking a moment to reach down and recover a few of the customer parts, taking in just how badly damaged they were.

Who knew pixie-stick dust could do so much damage?

Blunt fingernails scratched lightly into the surface of the powdery crust, scraping away a good portion and staring in amazement for how clean the metal was beneath. Hell, it may have clogged the engine but it wasn't as potent as real sugar, thanks to all the additives.

"Hey, you know, if you were to get some alcohol or something, this shit might just…"

Eyes glanced up towards his supposed audience, glancing left and then right to find the entire cave empty desolate.

The radio was playing "Monster Mash." Dracula's voice informed him that it was a graveyard smash.

What the _fuck _was with these guys?

"Hey… David?" called out to the darkness, waiting for a response.

"Marko?" 

Crashing waves against the walls.

"Dwayne?"

The quiet cooing of pigeons and seagulls nesting above.

The part was dropped back to the ground, back turning quickly and legs making a dart for the exit at the mouth of the cave. This shit was getting too weird. Visions of vampires with demonic faces drinking his blood, leaving strange scars on his neck, feeding him and then taking him to some strange cave and abandoning him. Fuck, what was this? The Twilight Zone? 

Feet stopped in mid-pace, however, turning and gazing back towards the body of the bike glittering against the ground. The polished frame, sleek and barely even ridden, staring mournfully from it's sheltered spot in the cave.

It was an unfamiliar emotion… something that started with a G.

Guilt.

Pure and itching throughout his veins as he stared down the beautiful, destroyed bike and felt a sense of ache carry throughout his heart. He would have given anything to have a bike like that and to have someone destroy it out of misplaced spite?

The song finished with an eerie sound of wind howling and a door somewhere in the distance opening slowly. The light from the moon was growing distant and Paul found himself back outside amidst the crashing waves, taking to his bike and jagged path they'd driven on, back through the forest and into town itself.

And to the nearest gas station to buy twenty bottles of rubbing alcohol.

------------------------------------------

There was something beautifully majestic about the design of this bike. Were he any good at poetry, Paul might have written the machine a love sonnet, emphasizing on just how fucking awesome it truly was.

Eyes burned from no sleep, but fingers kept their steady pace as he continued to clean and smooth out the parts, studying each and comparing them to his own bike, trying to remember where each one went. Ten years of working on his own had given him the freedom to work on one section at a time, making sure everything was as perfect as he could make it before moving on to the next half. He didn't have his manual with him and half the time was guessing at where each piece went.

Not like he could really make it any worse than it had been.

The sugary gunk had evaporated instantly when coming into contact with the alcohol and Paul silently wished David had been here to see his genius, to know that his bike would be resurrected before the day was through, if Paul managed to keep from passing out entirely.

The radio had been brought closer, blaring indistinct songs through the haze of static and keeping Paul awake through the dim hours of the morning and the onslaught of the dangerously hot afternoon. The boys still hadn't returned and he wondered idly if that had been their entire master plan. Take him out to some secluded spot and simply leave him in hopes of getting him lost.

Despite the stoner handicap, Paul actually had a decent memory and could visualize things easily when he wanted to. Roads, maps, nude poses of actresses and the parts that were slowly being reattached to this bike.

Around mid-day, things began to make more sense as parts attached easier and the scatter of tools became less and less as the rocker put on the finishing touches like, reattaching the breaks, the clutch and the accelerator.

Either that or he was too fucking delirious to know where in the hell he was or what he was doing, by this point.

By the time the sun sank beneath the quivering horizon, the last of the parts had been attached and Paul stood back for the first time to marvel in it's glory.

_Sex On Wheels _were the only words to come to mind. His body ached and throbbed with pain, weighted down by no sleep but eyes and mind were vibrant with the sudden feeling of pride that flushed throughout the cave. If the bastards were ever to return, maybe they could share in his enjoyment and at last, he and David would be solidly even.


	22. Breaking Bonds

"Christ Paul, you look pale."

"Pale and sexy?" Flex in front of the full-length mirror.

"No, just pale."

Eyes avoided the familiar presence within the mirror as shirt was lifted and thrown off, admiring the new flesh and muscle that had formed upon his bones. Three weeks. Only three weeks spent with David and the others and fuck he was looking good. Meals were plentiful, bike rides were wild and without restraint, parties were numerous and girls were finally starting to show some interest.

Not that Paul was a virgin or anything… not anymore.

Body flexed once more, admiring the ripple of hard muscle along his chest and shoulders. A build that was slowly beginning to show itself upon his arms. He was pale… but maybe one of these days he would wake early enough to go out to the beach and catch up on some serious rays. Maybe.

Malaki's father had finally left, staying only a month to catch up on his son's beatings and mannerisms before the Air Force called and sent him back out. Not that anyone truly minded.

Paul was finally allowed back in their house with only minor restraints and seeing Malaki after only a month of absence, was truly starting to bring him down. The kid seemed more depressed than usual and while this was normal after being around his father, Paul found it irritating and pointless. Like moping around would solve all his fucking problems. Why the fuck didn't he get out and do more? Why didn't he seem happy to see Paul or share a fucking comment on his health?

They'd talked about him before--David and him. Upon returning to the cave that night and discovering that Paul had fixed his bike, the man had accepted him entirely. No more of this weird, silence bullshit or putting him through strange tests. Paul was an equal to them, a friend.

And upon mentioning Malaki, a grimace had crossed the man's face. "No offense, Paul, but you can do a lot better than some little punk, street druggie."

And after a moment of silence, David had grinned. "In fact, you already have."

The words felt good to hear. Really good. Despite the fact that it was a serious put-down on his friend, Paul had to agree that being with these guys felt far better and was a hell of a lot more fun. Intense, even. They crashed all kinds of parties--mostly college, that Paul would have never dreamed of going to before meeting David. At first he felt awkward, as though everyone were staring at him and judging. But after a few nights with the boys and their encouragement, he was suddenly the life of the party. Taking chances getting recognized, cheered and fucking laid!

It was so fucking awesome!

"So I was thinking…" another flex before shirt was lifted and tossed back over his head. It was a webbed, mesh-type tank top that clung to chest and shoulders, followed by a black jacket that looked to be something between an 1800s dinner coat and an acid-induced, David Bowie music video. Marko had tossed it at him the third night they went riding. So he fit in with their style.

"Why don't you come riding with us tonight? David said we're probably gonna stick to the boardwalk and check out a few bonfires, you won't be gone very long," Paul said, checking his appearance one last time before turning to face his friend.

The look he got was far from expected; a barely repressed scoff and a flush of anger, as though Malaki honestly couldn't believe Paul had invited him to come riding with his new friends. He would wait a full moment, watching that look worsen upon his so-called friends face before firing back with a rush of his own fury.

"Okay dude, what the fuck is your problem?"

It took him another full minute to answer or to even look at Paul with barely concealed disgust in those eyes. But there was something else in them to. A strange… clenching sort of fear that ran deep within the kid's veins.

"What happened to your neck?" asked Malaki in a quiet voice.

The question caused a moment of confusion--he'd been expecting the kid to yell or kick him out of his room. Instinctively, fingers rose to touch the barest portion of that scar, feeling the sudden sting as though the wounds were still fresh inside of him. Feel the zing of energy pass through his spine and the sudden image of David in his mind.

"Spider bite," stated simply, crossing his arms over his chest.

It didn't take but a single look from Malaki to guess that he was lying. Or… if not lying, not telling the entire truth.

"With human sized fangs?" he asked.

Paul shrugged. "This _is _California. Shit from all over somehow manages to find it's way here. Actually, it was probably a scorpion sting. I felt sick after a few days of having it."

Another shrug, hoping that Malaki would accept his explanation because he couldn't think of a better one, at the moment. Instead, the kid seemed to glare harder at him, as though he could seer the truth away from Paul with those laser-vision eyes. They'd been friends for years and somehow he knew that Paul wasn't being honest. Not totally. Not to tell him what really happened that night in the trailer when the line went dead. Or the weeks that he spent with his new "friends," riding around Santa Carla and raising hell.

"Dude, I don't about these guys that you hang out with. They show up out of nowhere three months ago and it's like… they fucking own Santa Carla," eyes glancing up through those black strands of unkempt hair. "And they fucking own you."

Paul couldn't repress the scoff that came. The anger that flushed throughout his body and the sudden hatred he felt towards Malaki. It only lasted a moment, but it helped to form the words that came spilling from his snarling mouth. "I can't fucking believe this. You're fucking jealous! You're jealous because I finally have some friends that really understand me, that want to go out and have a good time and you want to fuck things up for me!"

"Paul, look! See what they're doing to you? You don't even know who--"

"What they're doing to me? I'll tell you what they're doing to me! They're taking me out night after night and showing me how to fucking have a kickass time! Fuck dude, I've never been this happy before. And you're just trying to fuck things up for me!"

It was somewhere between his yelling that Malaki had gone extremely pale. They'd had these kind of fights before and Paul had never once seen the stoner look so… terrified. His eyes weren't even looking at Paul and it took a second for him to turn around and discover David and the others, crowding in the doorway of Malaki's room.

The smirk on David's face was of pure, lupine evil, eyeing out Malaki from across the room. Marko stood behind him, sucking down a purple icie-stick while touching everything his eyes met and leaving Dwayne to lean in the doorway, looking almost bored with the entire encounter.

Paul smirked, but Malaki continued to look terrified as David stepped further into the room, keeping his gaze locked with stoner's own before that smirk fell into a dark chuckle. "Are the kids having a little fight?"

Paul sneered and shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know what his fucking problem is. I just asked if he wanted to go riding with us tonight, but apparently that would mean leaving his house."

"Oh, well we certainly wouldn't want that," David smirked. "Wouldn't want the monsters to come out and get him."

It was an insult, but for some reason Paul was laughing with them. Staring at Malaki with eyes that weren't his own. Thinking badly about a friend that had been with him, ever since preschool.

"Don't feel bad Paul, it's not your fault he's an uptight prude," David said, as though he'd somehow read the rocker's thoughts.

Paul didn't have much time to think it through as David turned and motioned for them to follow. Without thinking, or without turning back to see the anguished look upon Malaki's face, he made his way out of that room with the others, feeling a sense of… relief. Malaki just didn't understand. Didn't know what it was like to hang out with these guys and to finally feel accepted for the first time his life.

They were nearly out the door when Marko suddenly stopped and through the haze of purple slurping, reached down to pick up a brightly colored comic that had been resting against the coffee table. Paul glanced over the blonde-kids shoulder and smirked.

The title was painted in blood red letters reading: VAMPIRES EVERYWHERE.

The smirk didn't last for long, however, as the purple icie was dropped to the ground and Marko began to thumb his way through the book, fingers smudging the pages with their stickiness and eyes hungrily devouring everything that they saw. It was a new issue… printed some time last year and probably sold to Malaki by Joni and Jack. A hippie couple that owned a comic book shop on the boardwalk and who acclaimed to have met Jim Morrison and the Doors in person after one of their concerts.

The place use to be a haven for Paul and Malaki. When they were like… twelve.

Paul shrugged. "Malaki likes horror comics. He's been into them since the sixth grade. Really likes the vampire ones."

Marko didn't answer. None of the boys did. A single look from the grunge angel was passed towards David who in turn, ripped the comic from the kid's hands and tore it into several hundred pieces that fluttered to the floor.

Without glancing back at the mess, he motioned towards the door. "Let's go."


	23. Acid Burgundy

Movement.

Wild, wicked, twisted turnings; his body somehow detached from his mind and moving on it's own accord, around and around _and around _the fallen banister. Through the flames of the bonfire once--then twice, then a third time to make sure he wasn't dreaming when he felt the heat singe against his legs.

Fuck, this was some great acid.

It had been bitter at first. Almost tangy with a delicate sweetness that cut through the tongue only after the white cube had dissolved beneath it. Saliva was sticky and hard to swallow, coating the inside of his throat until a generous swig of beer sloshed it down.

The high was slow to hit; the affects of good psychedelic drugs never come on all at once. They sift throughout the entire body first, clotting the blood and causing only minor hallucinations before the real ride began to take hold. And this shit was Sunshine, a form of blotter acid that wasn't seen on the streets very often.

Paul could feel the world turning beneath his feet. The music that flowed through each individual cell in his body, igniting them with a sort of fire that glowed blue around his form. He could feel the air particles brushing up against his skin and buzzing around his head as though they bore secrets they wanted him to hear.

It was amazing. More than amazing… it was almost unreal.

He'd taken the hit two hours ago, sitting out on the boardwalk and staring down a couple of tanned beauties, walking by in their white bikini's and high-heeled sandals. Marko had whistled and received a shy smile from the prettier of the two, but before she could react fully, her friend was already pulling her away. Dwayne smirked and punched him in the arm, whispering something that Paul couldn't hear. David was lost in his own mind.

Leaning over his handlebars, the man had stared out at the blackness of the ocean, watching the waves crest and fall upon shore, chasing away a few beach-goers and putting out the embers of earlier bonfires. He seemed almost distant, but when Paul approached, the smile was back in place and leather hands reached into his pocket to produce the small white cube of happiness.

Paul normally wasn't into acid. Not that he wouldn't take a hit if it was offered, but it was expensive shit and not truly his game. But this shit… he could definitely get into.

They'd returned shortly to the cave, claiming that Paul had a half-an-hour before he turned into a "wild animal." Pizza had been stolen, beer as well and the music was turned up to a mind-wrecking volume that left no course of action but to get up and dance.

Soon, there were others. Paul wasn't sure if they were real or not, but kids his age, some he knew and some he didn't, all began to show up at the cave, baring more beer and attitudes for a party. The tan girls in white bikini's were there. He was fascinated by the way their hair seemed to glow amidst the amber lights of the burning fires. Marko was making conversation with the pretty one while Dwayne seemed more interested in the slow, grinding movements of the second girl's hips.

Paul was currently surrounded by two of his own, though he kept forgetting their names. Aubrey? Jessie? Tiffany? Something that ended in the annoying "Y!" sound?

They didn't seem to mind. Bodies brushed up against his own while hands reached for the holy grail of his un-brushed hair, fingers streaming through the dirty blonde locks and controlling his gaze with a single tug. Their eyes seemed to glow like the fires around him, their bodies of such intense heat, Paul had to check repeatedly if he was being burned. But the sensation of their grinding hips…

He was suddenly thirsty.

Sweat poured down his body and mouth mumbled a strange excuse that even Paul couldn't seem to grasp, but the girls merely shrugged and moved on to a new partner. Some strange, surfer punk who looked to be more out of a magazine than some juke who hung around the slums of Santa Carla. He didn't care… he needed to cool off. Maybe a swim in the ocean? But they were on some kind of island in the sky… he would never make the jump from here.

* * *

He was twisted. Even the kid's eyes had gone hollow with a sense of uncertainty about the reality around him, seeing things that weren't there… like the cooler he was reaching into and trying to fish out a drink. Marko smirked and continued to watch the little stoner stumble around. It was the last test… the final initiation before David made his move.

Before they all did.

The woman's hand cupped his cheek and turned his gaze back towards her own. A pretty little thing, barely out of high school and with a whole life ahead of her full of hopes, ambitions and goals that had yet to be achieved. But in her mind she knew she would reach them, that she would become a medical technician and receive a decent salary while her lawyer husband picked up the slack. They would live in a Condo somewhere in New York. She would leave this shit-hole town and send postcards to all her relatives from their private island in the Bahamas. Things would be perfect.

The only flaw in her master scheme was the fact that she had shown up here tonight at this private party, chasing after younger boys with wicked smiles and eyes that were alluring, though she couldn't quite understand why.

"So what's your name, anyway?" She asked with a wide, mindless smile.

Marko couldn't help his own grin as he drew the girl close in his arms, gazing down at her with those same eyes that had weaved a spell over her upon the boardwalk. Lips were licked, teeth bared and canines slowly growing larger, almost as if to tease the woman's sudden fears.

"Dracula."

* * *

"Fuck David, I'm so thirsty."

Just in time. The man appeared like a beacon of silver light, an angel from the heavens that could point Paul in the direction of the nearest cooler or keg. Maybe even the ocean but again, they were really high up and Paul wasn't that stoned to believe he couldn't make the jump. Not without a carpet of some kind. The wind traction would be difficult but he could probably steer it down easily enough.

What the hell was he doing? Oh, right! The beer.

Without answering, David came up and took hold of his face. Paul flinched, but stayed still for the most part, curious as to why fingers would skimming over his neck and cheeks before thumbs found their way to his eyelids and lifted them so that the whole eyeball could be seen.

"Um.. Everything okay?" he asked, suddenly aware of how strange hands actually looked.

Like spiders with a few missing legs. Unless you put the hands together, then they had two extra.

"Just making sure you aren't ODing," smirking before he let Paul's face go.

"Oh, no man. Just really fucking thirsty right now. Know where I could score a beer?" Swaying slightly. Fuck, he was dying of heat.

"Nah, there's no more beer. Sorry Paul," spoken with a shrug.

He couldn't believe his ears. "What the fuck? Well, we gotta go get some then. I'm fucking dying, dude."

Again with that fucking shrug. "We can't. All the liquor stores are closed."

He shook his head. It couldn't be true. There had to be at least one liquor store opened. Or if not that, somewhere he could get a fucking drink. His body was aching all over. Craving. He'd heard about this kind of experience, when the body sweated more than it was suppose to and dehydrated itself to the point of actually killing a person. He'd never really believed it until now.

Slowly, his knees began to cave out from beneath him. Gravity was suddenly vengeful, dragging his entire body to the ground and causing arms to crumble as they reached out to catch himself. He could feel David standing over him, staring with those icy eyes and… laughing? What the fuck was so funny? He was fucking dying from thirst!

The shadow grew deeper over his body as David knelt down, leather fingers falling back upon Paul's face and lifting his chin up to stare him in the face. The mirth was suddenly gone. All sense of mocking, of that dark, sinister smile and every moment that Paul had seen him laughing in the face of authority and control, gone within an instant and replaced with something deeper. Something… evil.

"Do you truly want to drink, Paul? Do you truly want to stop this ache?" asked in a voice that sent shivers through the spine.

Paul was dumbstruck, almost forgetting his dire need until it clenched at his stomach like an angry hand; dirty nails scratching away at his stomach and intestines while mind twisted further, desperate to the point of saying…

"Yes. Fuck, David, I want it to stop right now."

Fingers released their hold. The world tipped on it's axis as his head fell and mind lapsed into a moment of horror, wondering if David was just fucking around. It was the sudden glimpse of red, deep burgundy in color and spilling like a small waterfall from a deep wound in pale flesh, that brought back a sense of hope.

The hold was back against his jaw, directing mouth towards the flow and pressing lips to it fully. Paul was too dazed to resist… too anxious to put up any sort of fight as the cool liquid entered his mouth and natural instinct began to kick in, forcing him to drink it down.

The first swallow was the worst. It held a bite Paul had never tasted before and though he reared back, the press of those fingers kept him firmly attached to the flow. The second swallow came just as hard, followed closely by a third… and a fourth… and a fifth.

The bite was gone and replaced with a sudden, dizzying high that Paul had never before experienced on any sort of drug. It was like the slow calming of weed, mixed with a deep haze of heroine and perhaps a touch of Opium ecstasy on the side. There were suddenly a dozen glittering stars in front of his eyes, hovering close and filling his mind and senses with their burning light. Melting away his flesh and charring his bones until they were nothing but ash and only the soul remained.

Pure delusional ecstasy that ended far too soon.

The flow grew slower, trickling and teasing his senses as teeth suddenly fought against the pale flesh to recapture the red liquid.

"SHIT! Fuck Paul!" A hard jerk, forcing his face away just as teeth had sunk in deep and nicked something hard beneath.

He fell backwards… falling forever it seemed and landing against a soft cushion of sweat-glazed pillows. No, scratch that. Bodies.

Was everyone suddenly asleep?

They were piled together in a large pit, limbs twisted and tangled with expressions on their faces that Paul didn't want to stare at for very long. Some had large gashes against their throats and faces. But he was too relaxed to care.

They would be alright. This was all a fucking dream, anyway.

The thirst was gone. His body was still on fire, though it had become far more pleasant than when he was dancing only moments before. The air of calm never seemed to leave his mind, even as he watched the struggling, young girl being drug through the cave by Dwayne and handed over to David. Screaming and crying as though she'd just witnessed something terrible.

Talk about a buzz kill.


	24. The Cavalry

"I can not believe you Paul. You stumble in here in the middle of the night, covered in blood and god knows what else--you almost scared away my customer!"

His mother was angry… very angry. High-heels clicked contemptuously against the hard-wood floors, pacing back and forth like a lion trapped within a cage and stopping only to pick up a pink-laced pillow and smack Paul repeatedly against the head. The smile was hidden behind the safety of his teddy bear.

"You know, I outta just throw you out into the streets! Look, what good are you? It's almost noon and you're still asleep on my couch!" spoken through a thick, Spanish accent that Laddie knew meant business.

The toaster went off, popping up two badly burnt pieces of bread that would go without butter because business was slow this week. Only three men had come back with his mother and all seemed to be angry when they left. All except for the last guy with the gold necklaces and teeth. His mother had made a face upon seeing them but Laddie thought that they were neat.

Paul groaned softly, pulling the blanket further over his head.

"Oh no you don't!" Snatched away from his body and causing the rocker to finally crack open those eyes and stare up at his mother in disdain.

"Jesus, Maria… fuck.. Just a few more minutes and I'll leave," he said, trying to squint through the light.

"No sir! You want to stay in this trailer? You're going to have to earn it. You're going to watch Laddie for me today, I have to go shopping and meet up with Frank at the Pier."

The toast was snatched up and handed to Laddie on a paper plate. Paul groaned again and turned over on the couch, muttering softly before a pillow came up to cover his head. With a disgusted look, Maria gave him one final smack… on the bum. Feeling it for a moment before brows raised and a smile played upon those lips. She didn't even say goodbye before high-heels carried her out that door.

* * *

Paul must have been really tired. The day passed and no matter how hard he tried, Laddie couldn't wake the rocker up from his sleep. He'd pulled his hair, beat at his chest with those hard, tiny fists and dared Monster, his stuffed bear, to bite him. Nothing worked.

Finally giving up, he moved into his room and assembled his action figures, wondering if maybe they could think up a plan to wake up Paul.

The knock was sudden and startling. A hard bang against the door, followed by a voice that seemed familiar though he couldn't remember where he'd heard it before. Strangers were nothing unusual, his mother always had her "friends" over for dinner and usually they spent the night. Sometimes they came unannounced and on those occasions, Laddie had to go over to Paul's and wait with the man until they left.

Quietly, he got up and moved to the door, waiting a full moment before those hands reached the knob and turned. Eyes widened.

Malaki, Paul's mean friend.

The moment of silence grew longer as the two stared each other down. Laddie wanted to slam the door and tell him to go away, but he didn't know how to work the lock and Monster was back in his room, unable to protect him. The dark-haired man hesitated.

"Hey… um, is Paul here?" he asked.

"Yes," Laddie said, crossing those arms over his chest. "He's sleeping though."

"Sleeping? It's like, almost two."

"He was at some party last night. My mom says he was on some kind of drug and he got all fucked up and got blood on her couch."

"Hey, watch your mou--wait… did you say, blood?" Eyes darted curiously past the door towards the couch where the sleeping form lied.

Laddie nodded. "Yea, he had it like… all over his face and clothes. Mom had to clean it off before he got it everywhere."

"Mind if I come in and try to wake him up?" he asked.

For a moment, he hesitated. His mom didn't like strangers in the house when she wasn't home and he didn't like Malaki at all. But Paul had been asleep for a really long time and he _was _getting pretty hungry.

Shrug. "I guess."

Stepping inside, the door was shut and Malaki moved slowly towards the blood-stained couch that Paul remained fast asleep on. There was something strange in the way he walked… almost as if he were scared to get near his friend. Laddie stayed behind him, wishing he could go back into his room and get Monster, just in case something happened.

Laddie expected him to shake Paul. Smack him like his mother did or attempt to throw him off the couch. Instead, a comic book was pulled out from the man's pocket and opened to a creased page. Laddie couldn't read, but the letters on the front were bright red. The same color that the blood had been on Paul the night before. The pictures depicted a pale man lying on his back, arms crossed over his chest and peaceful look upon his face. Kinda like Paul.

Malaki studied the page for a moment, mouthing something to himself before reaching up and gently pulling the pillow away from the rocker's face. With the same gentleness, a thumb moved to press against the man's mouth, dragging up that lip and revealing a row of white teeth. And one that looked… slightly longer than the others.

Laddie sensed the sudden seriousness of the situation and crept closer towards Malaki. The man had let the rocker's mouth go and instead began to study his nails. They didn't seem all that different, but upon closer inspection, Laddie saw that they were longer. More pointy than normal. Like claws.

"What are you doing?" He asked, quietly.

Those eyes wouldn't turn to face his own. "I'm checking to see if he's a vampire."

Vampire?

Laddie studied the comic for a moment, eyes bouncing from scene to scene and watching as the peaceful looking man suddenly opened his blood-red eyes and bared those fangs in a wild howl of agony as a stake was driven straight through his chest.

He gasped.

Surely Malaki wasn't going to do that to Paul. Vampire or not, they were best friends and Paul was the only person who really liked Laddie. Who treated him like a brother and stole him ice-cream and marshmallows!

"You're not going to kill him, are you?" he asked, panic in his voice.

Malaki turned sharply and pressed his finger to his lips, telling him to be quiet. After a moment more of inspection, he turned away from Paul and curled the comic between his fists. Eyes fell to Laddie's own as he silently shook his head.

"No, he's only a half-vampire. If I can find the leader and kill him, he might have a chance of being human again," he said, moving towards the door.

Laddie hesitated a moment, staring down at Paul. Was he a vampire? Did that mean he could change into a bat and fly? Or drink blood from people's necks? What if he woke up and wanted to drink from Laddie? Or Monster? Or his mother?

Quickly he turned and followed Malaki out the door. "Can I come?"

Malaki stopped in mid-step, turning to scowl at Laddie. "Hell no. This is fucking dangerous, I can't have some kid coming with me and fuck it all up."

"But what if he wakes up and bites me?" Those eyes suddenly becoming large and pleading, forcing Malaki to hesitate a moment as he thought the situation through.

Despite the dislike for the twerp in the past, Malaki couldn't deny the fact that to leave him with Paul was putting him in serious danger when the rocker woke. Laddie tried to press his point.

"Plus, I'm a really good look-out!"

The man was crumbling, falling under the spell of those large eyes and that puppy expression that could make Paul cave in an instant. Tapping nervous fingers against the handlebars of his bicycle, he finally sighed and motioned the kid down.

"Fuck… fine. But you're waiting outside the cave and if you hear anything at all, you run straight back into town and call the cops, got me?"

The grin spread across his face as he gave an eager nod. Suddenly, he remembered--

"Wait! I gotta bring Monster though! He protects me."

Rushing into the house, past Paul and the bloody couch, he ran into his room and scooped up the worn teddy-bear, carrying him out to Malaki and the waiting bike.

Seeing it made the man sigh deeper and give a slight grimace.

"Great. The only one willing to help me is a goddamn five-year-old and his fucking teddy bear."


	25. Sacred Child

The music was throbbing violently throughout his veins. Images in black and white were cast across his mind: a dark castle sitting atop a twisted mountainside, the overgrown trees casting hideous shadows across the path and the sound of wolves howling in the distance, giving warning to the weary traveler that walked up the trail, unaware.

It took him a moment to recognize the traveler's face.

Malaki.

The kid trudged up the stooping hillside, glancing repeatedly over his shoulder and shivering all over from the sudden burst of cold. He came to the cryptic, iron gates and without hesitation, he stepped inside. Paul could feel him… the warmth that seeped out in an icy sweat along his skin. The taste of the cool breath that parted those lips and the fear that was riled in his veins, though burdened with a sense of knowing that he absolutely must go on.

Within moments, he was at the door. The heavy, iron knocker lifted and dropped against the wooden frame, effectively sealing his doom as the passage opened and he was allowed entrance inside. In the back part of his mind, Paul was screaming for him to turn back. Go away. He had a better chance of fighting off the wolves than he had at entering this castle and awakening the horrors within.

The music intensified slowly. The soft beat of drums giving away to chimes and an eerie organ that played a sinfully sweet melody, pouring from brass pipes. With every step Malaki took, the beat seemed to grow louder and more distinct. The throbbing of a human heart.

There was a creature inside the room with him, hidden from sight. Paul knew that it was near… watching and waiting for the right moment when the kid got down next to the fire to warm himself. When he'd begun to believe that this place was empty or the hosts were kind enough to allow a passing visitor vacancy for no price at all. Which was strange, because Malaki knew better than anyone else that nothing in life ever came without a price.

After calling out several times in a voice that was unheard through the beats, he moved to set his worn pack aside and take off his jacket, settling down upon a couch after giving it a good brush with his hand. Was he truly that stupid? Didn't he realize it was all just a fucking set up?

The fire burned warmly, the dancing of flames capturing the human's eyes and lulling him into a trance that began to grow more deep as the moments wore on. Eyelids began to grow heavy and unfocused, blinking repeatedly until they closed for the last time and Malaki was instantly taken away by the darkness and the dreams within his own mind.

It was then that the creature made his move.

From the shadows, he appeared like a corny phantom in some two-bit horror novel: no sparks, no glitter, simply a change of scene and the monster stepped out of the darkness to reveal himself and his true intentions. Paul wouldn't have been more surprised if it had been Santa Clause… rather than the twisted image of himself.

His skin was pale, death-like and warped in some strange, animalistic way that seemed familiar, though it was far from the cheap, horror-movie Dracula's that he'd seen in the past. Cheek-bones were high, eyes sharp and defined in their hunger and fangs bared as he moved slowly through the room, coming to stand over the sleeping human and smirk as fingers moved down to brush against those tangled, black locks.

No mercy… especially as those fingers curled and Malaki's eyes opened, just in time to see Paul's face as it was twisted in that horror and scream---

"NO!"

Body bolted upwards, arms flailing and legs kicking wildly beneath the pile of blankets and pillows, fighting them off as though they were demons risen up from some inner circle of Hell. Pain shot through his mind, coupled with that same deep, throbbing sensation that had been caused by the music in his dream. The only difference, was that the room was silent.

Sweat drenched his body. Sensation poured through his limbs in sharp zings and sparks of energy, burning as they reached his fingertips and toes. His hair was matted to the side of his face and eyes blinked repeatedly as he tried to work his way through the dirty blonde mass and the sudden light that seemed to be everywhere around him, though strangely, he knew it was night.

Fuck… he couldn't think. Couldn't breathe or concentrate on anything else than the sudden, violent pounding in his head. It traced through his body slowly, like an itch beneath the skin that would never be satisfied by a single scratch. Not until he had torn the skin away and sunk his teeth into…

Shit.

"Laddie?"

Body stumbled upwards, dizzy for a moment but catching his balance on the armrest of the couch that had been smeared in dried blood. Bits and pieces from the night before were tracing throughout his mind, the music… the acid… telling David that he was thirsty and that he wanted all the pain and anguish to stop. He couldn't remember anything after that moment, only stumbling into Maria's house just moments before sunrise and passing out upon her couch.

She hadn't been happy about it, that much he knew. She'd yelled at him in both Spanish and English before telling him to watch the kid for the day while she ran errands and whoring.

"Laddie?!"

No.. it was just a dream. He hadn't killed Malaki… or hadn't meant to. Legs stumbled forward, catching their balance after a few moments and searching throughout the trailer for the little twerp and his teddy bear.

"Fuck, this isn't funny!"

Panic. The kind he'd felt the moments in his own trailer when the knocks had started upon his door and he'd opened it to find the boys, seeking out their revenge. But Paul had deserved it, Laddie didn't.

But somehow, he knew that Laddie was with them. That the kid was in that cave and possibly Malaki as well, awaiting their deaths. The dream was a warning and Paul didn't need anymore encouragement as he rushed out the door and to his own bike that had been parked half-hazardly against the side of the trailer.

If only he could get there in time…

* * *

"Come out, we're not going to hurt you."

The child was sobbing almost uncontrollably. Tiny red fists clutched hard to that teddy-bear as face buried itself away within the worn mask of fur and artificial fluff, unwilling to look up and into those deep, brown eyes. The human must have warned him ahead of time, though it didn't stop Dwayne from reaching down past the fallen bolder, scooping the boy up and into his arms.

The kid flailed for a moment, but was suddenly stilled as a hand came out to cup his face and turn that wide and frightened gaze into his own. One of the more useful vampire tricks that was only learned after a good deal of practice and staring contests with Marko.

The kid was small for his age, terribly thin and with a mess of brown locks that hadn't looked to have met with a comb in some time. Tears continued to drip down his dirt-smudged face though breathing slowed to an acceptable level and body relaxed within his strong hold.

"It's alright, I've found him," Called out to the others as he moved over the rocks and fallen debris, carrying the child back into the main room.

One look from the others would say it all, this was far from the "back-up" they'd been expecting when Malaki had called out to Laddie, telling the boy to run. The kid quivered, breaking eye contact just enough to gaze down and into the room where David stood, poised and ready for attack until he saw the bundle that Dwayne was toting. Blue eyes passed from the limp human to the ground, back to the kid whose sniffles were the only sounds in the room, other than the flickering of the flames.

A five-year-old and his teddy-bear. Dwayne brushed the edge of the kid's mind just enough to learn that it's name was "Monster."

"Is this some kind of sick joke?" spoken from Marko who had been in the midst of tying up the human and setting a gag around his mouth.

Without waiting for an answer, the grunge angel would kick Malaki hard in the side, forcing a sharp, muffled cry through that dirty rag and the kid to break away from Dwayne's gaze just enough to start crying once again. He shot Marko a glare.

"Hey… shhhhh. Just calm down," spoken softly as he pulled the struggling boy closer and laid that head against his shoulder.

It was amazing how quickly attachment came. How suddenly Dwayne could feel the eyes of both his brothers upon him and David's own searing into the flesh of his back as his strong, silent killer was immediately overthrown by a child. But the man hadn't known much about Dwayne's own life before he'd stumbled upon him in the desert, sacrificing his soul to the Sun God and begging for death as the night fell upon him. His quest for suicide had been in part due to loosing his youngest brother to a rival gang that had been passing through their small town.

The nights his mother had sobbed, begging the Gods to spare him just one more day so that she could say goodbye. His father, emotionless and cold as he sat in front of the television, drinking and glaring at Dwayne when he thought his son wasn't looking. Everything was his fault. The boy's blood was on his hands.

In his mind, this kid was the spitting image of Henry; the dark hair and tanned skin, large blue eyes that stared out in a sense of knowing that went beyond his years. And of course, a teddy-bear that was his protector. That kept him safe as he slept, though it wasn't enough to stop a bullet to the back of his head.

"Dwayne."

Brown eyes turned back to stare at David across the room, feeling the sudden tension in the air and immediately shaking his head.

"No…"

"If he has any kind of attachment to Paul, he could notify the authorities and--"

"He's a _kid_, David."

Arms tightened around the boy's frame, keeping him locked securely within his grasp as David stepped forward and… hesitated. It was the first time that Dwayne had ever gone against his Sire's wishes. The first time he acted foolishly and for the sake of a human, no less.

David stepped closer, taking care in his movements and stopping no more than three feet away. "He's not your brother, Dwayne."

The man flinched, feeling a sense of utter outrage that David should bring up such a sacred memory and act as though it were nothing more than simply that. The past that collected only dust. The kid had calmed some, sniffing loudly and gazing over Dwayne's shoulder to stare at Marko who had begun to make faces at him.

"I don't care… he doesn't deserve to die," spoken softly, eyes darkening as they glared into David's own.

He expected anger but instead, David's eyes seemed to soften slightly around the edges. The creature was cold and ruthless, but when it came to his children, his brothers in blood, there was truly no denying them what they wanted. Be it a form of love or simply to shut them up for awhile.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, he turned away. "So be it."


	26. First Blood

It had been a horror movie all along; like the ones that he and Malaki watched every Sunday on the Late Night Show on the old television set in the kid's basement. Deluded nights, spent scouring over their weed supply and joking with one another on who was going to be the first in the movie to die. Death had been funny when they knew nothing could ever happen to them. That the vampires and the werewolves in the black and white set had been nothing more than shadows and figments of their imaginations.

And through the entire movie, the humans had been completely unaware of all that was happening around them. Every single, fucking sign was taken as a coincidence or some innocent oddity that didn't register in their minds until the very end.

Paul gritted his teeth and hit the accelerator harder, nearly forcing his bike into a shimmy along the coast.

Yea, it's all just fucking fun and games until someone becomes a vampire. Memory was fogged of that night inside the cave; vivid colors, wild movement and cotton-candy bodies laced in sugar-coated sex made up for the majority of what he could recall, but somewhere deep inside, he knew that there had been more. That the taste of blood in his mouth had been real and the sudden sickening desire to taste it again was not just in his head.

It was hard to describe. Paul had never truly been an addict to drugs and had little to no experience with the sudden, irresistible pressures that scratched along in agonizing beneath his skin. Like flecks of lead in his veins, the itch couldn't be ignored and each person he passed caused a sense of hesitation and yearning for their blood.

_For their fucking blood!_

The idea disgusted him and yet, at the same time, he couldn't get it out of his head. Images of girls strayed in his mind, their necks bared and available, their wrists cut and a glitter of red liquid pouring down like soft jewels across their skin. Even their thighs were parted, welcoming Paul to take a bite.

Eyes focused hard upon the path in front of him, leading away from the boardwalk, the beach and the parties. Fuck… it wasn't right. Nothing was right. Malaki had always been the one to be interested in vampires---not him! If anyone, it should have been him on this bike, pushing the throttle as hard as it could go and following the jagged, twisted trail that led to Hudson's Bluff and the monsters that were waiting.

Through the ache and delirious sensations, Paul could feel David somewhere inside his mind. Smiling.

The wind picked up and bit sharply into his back as the cliffs were neared and the ocean was heard, raging along the bared rock-side. Lightening zinged and thunder cackled in the distance. He'd found the tomb of Dracula and was going in without so much as a plastic spork for protection.

Fuck, no wonder the humans never survived.

* * *

The air was warm inside the cave; the low, moaning sounds of Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit" hummed softly from an unseen record player as the incense rolled slowly out of heavy, iron holders. A dozen white candles had been lit, some fashioned in circles while others were piled around the fallen pillars and rubble. One circle however, was gathered around a body that lie motionless against the ground. Black cords tied limbs together and mouth was somewhere buried in a dirty rag.

Blood was in the air.

The second circle was centered around a group of four; Marko, perched like a cat upon a pillar with book in hand and cigarette smoldering idly between parted lips, was the first to spot him from the entrance. The next was David, lounging in a bumper-sticker wheel-chair that he and Paul had managed to smuggle out of a retirement center only weeks before. And finally, Dwayne leaning back against the ratted, ocean-smelling couch, watching a smaller form that sat at his feet, eating a white bread sandwich.

Bologna, if senses weren't mistaken.

The blood, however, wasn't coming solely from the forgotten form tied up upon the ground. Even through the darkness, Paul could see the marks against the kid's neck. Two bruised points upon the kid's neck that were barely shadowed by brown hair. It was only seconds later before those soft, blue eyes glanced up and through the crumbs of the sandwich, a smile formed.

"Paul!"

Three sets of hooded eyes found their way to his own.

There was a lump imbedded somewhere in his throat. "Hey Laddie."

The kid's smile broadened through the bread crumbs before mouth took another massive bite from his sandwich. Paul fought the urge to rush forward and grab the boy, taking him from this cave and these fucking creatures that had already wound their spell around him, just as they had with Paul only weeks before.

"Hey, chill out. We got you something to eat, too," said Marko, nodding and blowing a perfect smoke ring in the direction of Malaki on the floor.

A deep shudder rose through his spine. He'd been avoiding it… that single glance towards the dark-haired kid that was lying upon the floor, bleeding and groaning in low, guttural sounds that belayed the inner agony he was feeling. The idea that his life was about to come to an end.

And that his killer would be his best friend.

The ache was suddenly overwhelming. Movement came at his side and the brush of leather was felt at his arm and though eyes were locked to the bleeding teen upon the ground, he could tell it was David, standing at his side.

"You have to feed Paul," spoken softly, though firmly enough to cause the hairs against his neck to rise. "He knows too much about us. About our kind. He has to be killed."

The room seemed to tilt and sway slightly as Paul felt a wave of dizziness pass over his body. As on the boardwalk and the beach, a sudden desire to rush up and plunge teeth into those open wounds clouded his mind. To take his blood… to complete some final transformation and become a…

"Vampire. You're all a bunch of fucking vampires," he said, turning to stare at David.

The man met the challenge with little effort, though there was something intense in those electric, blue eyes. "And you're one of us now, Paul."

"Yea!" cried Laddie. "One of the Lost Boys!"

Eyes wavered. The Lost Boys? Like from Peter Pan?

"Exactly, Paul," said David.

Gaze slowly returned towards the cowering form upon the ground. Bruised eyes had opened, staring up at Paul with something close to horror and disgust, though plagued at the same moment with an intense fear at the notion he was going to die. It was the fear that gave the air a sudden flavor, like torturing a small animal for amusement. And liking it.

A lot.

"He's mine…" spoken softly, though eyes turned sharply to meet with David's and the others.

"All mine."

And without waiting for their response, he moved quickly to the quivering body upon the ground, scooping the dark-haired kid up with a strength he didn't remember ever having, and hauling his ass out of the cave.

It was one thing to kill your best friend, but it was another to do it in front of a clan of vampires.

That was a fetish that not even Paul could get into.


	27. Sike!

If there was such a thing as Karma, Paul hoped to God that he was scoring major points.

He couldn't think, couldn't breathe or try to explain what the hell he was doing as the ropes were unraveled from Malaki's form and the kid was set upright on his feet. Even he was taken by surprise from Paul's actions, as though he honestly expected his best friend to kill him. Drain his blood entirely with fangs that Paul wasn't even sure he had yet.

Vampire or not, he was still the same, goofy stoner who had marked up the kid's coffee table and once put a whole, lit joint into his mouth to keep Malaki's mother from seeing it. .

Christ, and no one ever gave him any credit!

The last of the ropes were removed and after a moment of swaying, Malaki seemed to realize where he was and what Paul was truly doing. But the blonde stoner wasn't done yet.

"C'mon, I don't know how long it actually takes to kill a person by draining their blood so the faster you get out of here, the better chance you have of making it," hushed voice whispered over the howling wind.

For a moment, Malaki didn't seem to understand. At least until Paul motioned him quickly towards his bike.

Despite the bruises, the bloodied nose and the hair that clung desperately to his face, eyes registered immediate shock. Ever since the day he'd managed to start it, Paul had let no one touch his baby. The bike he'd been working on for ten solid years and one that Malaki could remember seeing ever since fifth grade when the two would walk home from the bus stop together and conjure ways of sneaking into the junkyard late at night to steal an old, rusted bike frame.

Even in the face of the undead and certain doom, he still couldn't believe what Paul was asking him to do.

"But, it's your… your bike, man."

"Fuck, don't make this any harder than it already is!" answered back, more bitter than he meant it to sound.

There was no other way. Malaki would never make it on foot back into town and even if he did, where would he go? Santa Carla was only a rest stop on the map of California and not a very dense place for playing extreme Hide-And-Go-Seek. He'd have no chance in hell to survive…

"Look, I'm only going to show you this once, so pay attention. This is the front break, just tap it unless your on a hill, otherwise you'll go flying over the handlebars and into someone's windshield. The back break is on your right and the clutch is on your left…" boot reached for the petal.

" Down is first, up is second,.. third… fourth… and fifth. Second is kinda tricky though, it sticks just a bit so just give it a good hit and it should go all the way…"

Malaki had seen enough racers on the tracks to at least know what Paul was talking about. Though still… the kid was hesitant. Paul was hesitant, as well. Ten years of hard work… of sweat and blood into this bike and it was about to become his friend's get-a-way vehicle.

"David says you have to die, man. This is your only shot…"

Dark eyes met with Paul's own. He knew what Malaki was thinking; of the night at the race track where Paul had stupidly opened his mouth and instantly forfeited his life to these monsters. Of how he'd tried to warn him and all he got in return was a kick in the ass.

Despite it all, he smiled. "It's okay, Paul. I would have done the same thing."

And with that, he moved for the bike.

No, Paul would never admit the pain it caused him to see the kid turn the key, kick down the starter and awaken the beast with a roaring rev of that engine. He'd never admit it because the pain he felt wasn't from seeing his bike go… it was form loosing his best friend to the darkness of the path that led out of Santa Carla and to the open road that stretched for miles into the unknown. Hopefully, never to be seen again.

The movement at his side caused him to jump and stare at the darkened form of Dwayne, watching with those deep, brown eyes as the trail of dust left from the bike was slowly carried away by the rising winds.

"That was a foolish thing to do, Paul. Brave, but foolish."

He couldn't help but wince. "C'mon, at least give him a ten minute head start.."

The smirk was something close to kind. "I didn't say I was going to tell David, I'm just saying that you let a perfectly good meal take off on _your _bike and now you're going to have to go to Santa Carla to find more of both."

For a moment, Paul couldn't tell if the dark man was joking or being entirely serious. Would he keep his secret and let Malaki live?

"Scout's honor, I won't tell a soul," Dwayne said, raising two fingers comically into the air.

Paul didn't know whether to hug him or punch him straight in the arm. Either way, Paul felt a sudden and strange connection the man, like an older brother of sorts that would keep his secret safe.

"But you need to feed, Paul. Or you'll start to go insane."

And of course, with big brothers, there was always a fucking catch to every deal made.

Paul hesitated, "Alright… but I'll need a lift into town."

Dwayne nodded, "I can fly you there, if you want."

The stoner barely had time to wrap his mind around the other's words before the wind picked up and black wings descended down upon his body, dragging him swiftly into the air.


	28. Bye Bye Rick the Dick

He couldn't tell if Dwayne was doing it… or if it was his own imagination suddenly taken with the idea of bursting through the screen door, letting sensation and hunger overtake his mind and body, forcing him to commit an act so vile and horrific that Paul didn't know whether to laugh for the irony or pass out from the fear. In his mind, images of blood ran in slow moving streams down the walls. Across fallen bodies that had already been drained and faces that were frozen in terror, eyes unable to blink or look away.

His mouth began to tingle and tongue played unconsciously with the fangs that began to grow. They'd flown all the way into Santa Carla and instead of heading for the beach or Pier, Dwayne took the stoner back to the trailer courts, to his very own trailer where his mother and stepfather were waiting inside.

"The first kill is always the hardest…" he explained, leaning against the blinking street lamp and watching Paul from afar. ".. you need a reason to kill and they need a reason to die."

At first, Paul only stared at the man until he realized what Dwayne was actually saying. Either way, whether he chose to kill them or not, they would be put to death for merely knowing him. For possessing the threat of going to the police, even though Paul knew that the one thing his mother wanted most was her son leaving and never coming back.

There was as still a microscopic chance she could become a good mother before the night was through and realize that her baby boy was missing and ran straight to the authorities to find him.

Fingers tensed and rose to clasp around his arms, suddenly cold with fear and paranoia.

His mind was reeling from the images passing behind his eyes, from the growing realization that there was no way to escape this. No way to truly become human after he made his first kill and allowed some deep, seeded monster inside him take hold.

"_Would you ever become a vampire, man? I mean, if you were given the choice?" _Malaki's voice haunted the back of his mind.

Had the kid made it safely out of town?

"_Yea, it might be cool," _Paul had replied.

Fuck… what the hell had been thinking?

"Back home--I mean, in New Mexico, it's believed that if you talk about a supernatural creature or a dark force, you call their presence and curses upon yourself," spoken softly by the dark-haired vampire as he leaned further against the flickering lamp-post.

"You know, that's getting really, fucking annoying, man," replied Paul through grit teeth.

The vampire only shrugged. "Hey, I can't help it. Your thoughts are loud."

Eyes narrowed, though in a way, it was really kick ass. Would he be able to read minds too? And fly?

"Only if you make your first kill, Paul. Otherwise, you stay somewhere in the middle of being human and vampire. And eventually, you'll go insane with the hunger." The man pushed off from the post and started towards Paul and the trailer.

It was surprisingly quiet for this time of night. Normally, it was the hour that his mom came home from work and, after a twelve-hour shift in stone, sober solitude behind a checkout counter, the woman was a bit… edgy. She often came home in a rage, screaming at her dead-beat husband, at the cats and at Paul before she began to sift through the trailer and her hidden stashes of just about every mind-numbing narcotic on the planet. After the dirty needles were found and applied to the tracks in her arms, she became suddenly quiet and stared off into space with a psychotic glint in those jagged eyes. He didn't doubt that someday she would loose it. That the drugs wouldn't be enough to keep her demons at bay and the steak knives in the draw would actually do more than carve figure-eights and girl's phone numbers on the countertops.

While part of him was sickened at the idea, there was a bent satisfaction in knowing that tonight would the last night she would ever get to scream at him. That she would look with those glazed eyes out into the world that had so wronged her and the last thing she would know was the cold as her blood was drained from her body.

The images were immediately shaken from his head.

"I can't do it… dude, this is murder."

Dwayne was standing against the side of the trailer, looking in through the window and squinting as he saw the beached whale lingering upon the couch.

His eyes glanced sharply back at Paul. "It's not murder, Paul. It's hunting. Feeding. We do it to survive, just as humans breed cows and pigs and chickens, only to slaughter and eat them when the time is right. Do you feel bad knowing that the burger you ate was herded into a single file line, shot in the head and then decapitated and ground into a bloody slush?"

Paul felt sick and hungry at the same time. "Well… yea, but--"

"It's the same difference. Humans do it to survive, we do it to survive."

He couldn't argue with logic. Or with the sudden, irresistible itch that began to grit slowly through his veins. The sudden thirst that parched his mouth and throat, just like the night he'd been bombing on acid and needing something to drink. David had promised that the thirst would go away… that all his pain…

Legs hollowed as he clutched the railing of the deck and started up the creaking wooden steps to the screen door. The t.v. was on and blaring some strange, pornographic comedy with high, girlish voices gigging as they discussed the sex they had with their boyfriends. The whale on the couch was staring intently at the screen, though eyes flickered just enough to catch a glimpse of Paul standing at the door.

His smile was something grotesque. "Hey Jenny! Your rat-bastard son is home!"

Fingers clutched the handle to the screen door and pushed his way inside.

* * *

"_Do you ever just close your eyes while he's behind you and imagine it's someone else?" _the morbidly cheerful looking blonde asked her gifted, red-headed friend.

"_Oh all the time!" _she replied, beaming. _"Though sometimes I accidentally call out the wrong name and he gets upset. I told him it was because I wanted to have a three-way." _

They giggled again and began to take off their shirts.

Paul's eyes strayed from the scene to take in the sight of the man before him. Rick Welshar. The man was a semi-tamed gorilla that had somehow managed to sneak inside their trailer and steal away upon their couch for the last fifteen years. He claimed to have been part of the Hell's Angels and so far, he only had the jacket to prove it.

Paul could never remember the man riding up on a motorcycle or being anything more than an absolute slob. Claiming the couch as his thrown, the trailer as his castle and Paul's mom as his Queen, the man's reign of terror had lapsed into years and there was not a single moment when Paul felt truly safe being in the same room with him.

The itch continued to scale up his arms and somewhere deep in his heart, an ache was throbbing throughout his entire body, making it difficult to concentrate.

At least on the porn.

"And where the fuck have you been, Pauly?" the man's voice slurred.

Paul couldn't help but tense, glaring daggers into the man's flesh and suddenly imagining him face down in a pool of his own blood and vomit. Thinking of blood caused a sudden rush to course through his body, tickling each nerve and causing a sudden groan to escape dry lips.

The man studied Paul for a moment. He may have been a drunken, drugged up rat-bastard, but the stoner had learned the hard way that the man was anything but stupid. Or lazy.

"The fuck are you on? Have you been in my stash?"

The feeling lasted no more than a moment before the itching was suddenly back and worse than before. Grinding against his body, beneath his very skin. It seemed in some ways to call to him, speaking in soft whispers that were barely heard but understood all the same.

Kill. Feed. And watch the ending scene of this porn through the glaze of blood that would be splattered against the screen.

There was movement somewhere above him, but by the time eyes had focused, the fist had caught him square on the jaw. The crack sounded throughout his mind and body fell back against the door of the trailer, hands reeling for his face and eyes blinking repeatedly as they tried to work their way through the stars and blurs of color that streamed with something close to tears.

Rick was standing above him. "I asked you a fucking question, boy. Were you in my fucking stash?"

His breath was laced with liquor and a smell that could only come from years of not brushing his teeth. By this point, Paul would have tried to escape. Out the door and over to Maria's house to sleep while his stepfather raged and took his anger out upon his mother who sat motionless in the kitchen, cigarette and a glass of scotch in either hand. She didn't seem to notice what was going on in the living room and if she did, those eyes only looked the other way.

Fingers drew back and instantly caught sight of something dripping from their tips.

Blood.

His blood.

The red substance seemed to collect for a moment, streaming beneath dirty nails and down along calloused digits and knuckles, cool to the touch. Tongue began to swim in his mouth, tasting along the corners of his mouth and gums until he found that wound, licking it slowly and feeling a shudder course through his spine at it's taste.

It wasn't like the other times he'd tasted blood in his mouth, repulsed and spitting it out upon the carpet, leaving stains and memories that were like a photo-album of his childhood. No.. this was something else entirely. Cool… the warmth fade fast and the taste brought back seconds of that sheer, tantalizing rush. Teasing every sense and portion of Paul's mind until eyes looked up towards Rick himself and he felt the change inside take place.

There was no describing it… at least not in a way any human can truly understand. Energy rushed through his body, greater than any artificial drug could give him. Vision blurred but only for a second and suddenly the lights around him seemed to singe against his eyes and flesh, causing a voice that wasn't his own to growl out in pain. Fingers tensed, feeling nails growing and moving beneath his skin until they resembled razors that scratched agonizingly along the side of the metallic door. Lips recoiled and jaws ached, feeling fangs as they grew from his canines, stinging as they bit against his tongue.

Suddenly, Dwayne's words began to make sense to him.

To kill wasn't to kill… it was only feeding.

Paul wanted to feed… but not from Rick.

The man watched as the change in his stepson unfolded, eyes widening and mouth opening and closing repeatedly, as though he almost believed it might have been the side-effects of his own drugs. That was the problem with being a used up druggie all one's life. You were never sure when anything was real and when it could truly hurt you.

Fangs were licked as the wound against his mouth healed and the scent of blood grew less in the air. For a moment, Paul almost lost it. He almost regained his sense of rationality and realized that he was approaching Rick at a slow pace, enjoying every second of the man's terror as eyes began to tear away his flesh and see the inner-makings of the man's deteriorating soul.

He suddenly grinned. "I got a good one for you, Rick. What do you get when you cross a human with a vampire?"

The man seemed suddenly lost, eyes glazing rapidly as they stared into Paul's and mouth gasping over and over again as though he were trying to form some kind of plea to the kid that he'd abused for nearly fifteen years.

The smile suddenly turned into a snarl. "One fucking dead human."


	29. Virgin Fangs

"Oh god, Paul. What have you done?"

The scene in the room was something close to a psychotic portrait painted by a serial killer in some intensely guarded mental institution. The man that had once been known as Rick Welshar was lying in disorganized pieces along the floor. Blood soaked the couch, the walls, the front of the t.v. screen as the two girls lied naked atop each other, mouthing breasts and other unmentionable area's while the creature once known as Paul, watched in silent amusement.

He barely heard the voice that spoke from the kitchen as fingertips rose to his mouth, licking away the vile blood that had been inside Rick's body and immediately spitting it to the floor. Fucking Christ! The man's body must have been in a state of denial. His blood tasted like something close to rat poison and even if Paul had wanted to feed from him, he wouldn't have gotten more than a few mouthfuls before recoiling in disgust.

"Fucking piece of shit… worthless right down to the last drop," muttered as a boot came to stomp against the remains of the man's torso.

The violence, however, had been enough to shake the woman that sat out in the kitchen. The one that use to be his mother, though he could barely recognize her now. In some weird way, she seemed familiar. Like a face from a dream he'd been living in his entire life and suddenly had woken to reality and the world that was bright and sinful all around him.

But he'd not yet taken blood… not yet.

At his gaze, the cigarette perched between pale fingers began to tremble and the ice in her glass sloshed against the sides, spilling onto table in small, golden patterns of watered down scotch. If she were to grip the glass any tighter, it would likely shatter within her palm, grinding jagged shards into her flesh and cause blood to course like small rivers between the cracks in those fingers. The vision brought a wolfish smile to his face.

And while some part of her seemed to realize the danger she was in, Paul could see the definite glaze within those soft green hues and a stoned mind that hadn't truly grasped the horror of what had happened only moments before. How the man she'd devoted her life to, was suddenly ripped to pieces by none other than her very own son. The story of Oedipus briefly came to mind, but Paul had no intention (or sexual attraction) to the woman that had birthed him eighteen years ago and promptly forgot about him by the age of three.

"Did you ever really care about me? Or was I just a leverage to get dad to come back?" the huskiness in his voice seemed to fade some, but the monster-like appearance remained.

She seemed almost not to hear him. Hands trembled harder as she brought the dirty glass of scotch to her lips and downed the gritty contents in a single, gasping swallow. Paul took a step towards her and caused a flinch to erupt against her shoulder.

"I did what I had to do… I didn't want to get pregnant, Paul. That was a mistake. But I bared down and agreed to come to Santa Carla to live for a year while your father got his affair's in order and came back to collect us and take us to a better town… somewhere out in the country side where you could grow up in the fresh air…" Her voice was soft, causing Paul to hesitate only once before steps continued towards her.

"He never came back, Paul. I waited and waited.. I jumped at every motorcycle I heard for over three years, expecting it to be him. But when your grandfather returned with the news that he'd been killed in a bar fight.." she shook her head.

Paul stood before her… watching every move and tracing every detail of her face. Every line, every marking, every bruise that had been given by the man that was not his father. Every cruel remark was set in stone upon her flesh, forever frozen as a bitter reminder to the very monster she had become.

His voice was a whisper. "But what?"

Her eyes teared over and her voice broke. "But I never truly loved him… or you."

The words brought a sudden, shaking halt to his advances. To the hunger that burned deep inside of him, wanting to hear her beg and plead and wither in his arms as he plunged those virgin fangs into her neck and took from her all that she had known in this life for himself. But he was suddenly caught off-guard. Her words struck some inner part of his soul where a sense of humanity still remained and the real Paul gasped in sudden disbelief.

His mother had been hard woman. An insane woman. Someone who threw insults and words carelessly around to others, but had her moments of softness when she seemed to realize that her son was truly living a miserable life. Times when she'd given him money to go out and buy ice-cream for himself and Laddie. OR when she'd made popcorn or smuggled a sandwich for Paul when his stomach wouldn't stop growling. All those times came flooding back into his mind and in an instant, they were smashed into pieces with the last remaining part of his human soul.

"You bitch!"

Those tear-streaked eyes, pained and yet somehow hollow with a sense of self-loathing, came up to meet Paul's own. Selfish eyes that all this time, had only been looking out for herself.

His body lurched forward and that delicate throat, scarred with lines that looked more like an attempt to hang her self, was taken up in his hands.

He wouldn't give her the chance to scream. To beg or plead or promise that things would be different. That she could help him and gain back some sense of humanity in the monster that had once been her son. Fangs bit deep into her neck; a sickening crackle as the flesh parted and blood spurted up into his mouth, giving life to every fantasy he'd ever dreamed. Every pleasure he'd ever experienced and every pain… making each one seem small in comparison as the sensation of life and death overtook his body.

He didn't know what she felt… what her last thoughts were or if her life flashed before her eyes.

Honestly, he didn't give a fuck.

Her life was somehow poured into him, flowing in waves of energy and youth, stopping the itch that rose through his veins and giving him a high he'd never thought possible.

Better than Ecstasy… Meth, Heroin, Opium.

But strangely… not as welcoming as weed.

Her breathing strained. Mouth opened to let forth a stream of curses and wild, animal-like screams… but could only gasp and groan achingly, feeling her body and mind weaken with every swallow of blood. Her spine coiled, arching painfully as the final moments of her life passed through Paul's lips and into that hungry bloodstream.

Killed a vampire. At least it had some sense of bragging rights in heaven. Or more importantly, in Hell.

Paul let the body slump down upon the table, watching as the glass fell from hand and the cigarette smoldered against the smooth surface. The blood swam like fire through his veins, reaping away all that had been human and replacing it with something more.

Something so fucking…_incredible_.

Blood streamed down the corners of his mouth and tongue moved to catch the remaining drops along pale lips, feeling shards of that energy and high return with each touch. He wanted to feed again. To feel the blood pour down his throat and alight those senses with the same life and death that caused his own body to shudder and convulse with each sip.

Now he understood.

Everything.

The woman's corpse was stared at for a moment, eyes marveling at how white her skin had become. How far away those eyes seemed to look and how still she lied. He was curious more than he was afraid, letting fingers trail against the cooling flesh of her cheek before dragging them down along her eyelids and shutting those glazed, unseeing hues.

The bottle she'd been savoring slowly was taken up and the golden contents poured along her body. Despite the years of torment, of wishing Paul were dead and finally breaking free of the truth, telling him that he'd been a mistake and she'd never truly loved him or his father, the vampire couldn't help but feel that they were somehow even.

A life destroyed for a life reborn.

Or some deep, philosophy shit like that.

The lighter was taken up in those cool fingers and flicked multiple times before the flame appeared. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he had to destroy them. To burn them and this place into nothing more than a smoldering heap of ashes and he would finally be allowed to forget his past entirely.

To become one of the… what did Laddie call them? Lost Boys?

They were going to have to work on the name.

The flame flickered lightly as he brought it to the hem of her shirt, watching as the fibers began to singe before---

"Hey Paul, is Laddie over here?"

The voice startled him, speaking through the screen door at the front of the trailer before the handle turned and opened, revealing a rather distraught Maria Tequila.

Her legs were scraped and dirty, high-heels scuffed and skirt torn slightly along the side. Her shirt was in similar disarray and bruises along her face gave way that the day might not have gone as well as she had planned. And was about to get a hell of a lot worse.

The flame was flicked away and senses were suddenly struck with the smell of fresh blood.

At the sight of Paul's stepfather in pieces on the floor, the woman's eyes became the size of dinner plates and mouth opened to scream in silent horror.

Paul only smirked. "You alright, Maria? Jesus, look like you've just seen a murder or something."


	30. Epilogue Or Whatever

"_In recent news… a trailer in Amber Oaks Park was burnt to the ground last evening between the hours of three and four a.m. Authorities that arrived on the scene said the fire was most likely an accident and unfortunately has claimed the lives of Jenny and Paul Stevens. The third body has not yet been identified. More updates will come as the story unfolds… John?"_

The man shuffled his papers, nodding to his blonde anchor with another, grimacing smile.

"_On a related story, a woman by the name of Maria Gabriel and her young son Laddie have both gone missing…"_

The television was snapped off with a nudge of that toe, causing a rush of silence to enter the room that Billy seemed to take no notice of. His face was still buried deep within the crook of her neck, giving hickies and other bruises while hips ground tightly against her own.

Apparently he didn't remember the name of the kid that had kicked his ass in seventh grade.

And for some reason, Lindsey couldn't forget.

After a few moments, a hard sigh came against her neck as the kisses and suckles stopped. The brawny boy leaned up and let those eyes meet her own with a sense of disgust.

"Are you even into it?"

Lip curled slightly as she tensed beneath him. "Didn't you hear the news? Some people just got burnt up in their trailer."

Tongue sucked the top of his teeth as he leaned back, throwing arms behind his head and watching her with an amused expression. "Sucks to be them."

No, he definitely didn't remember Paul. And even if he had, he probably would have cheered at the idea of the kid being burnt to a crisp inside his own home. That day at school, his face had been ground into the sidewalk and a rib had been broken in the struggle. She could remember the teachers pulling the boys apart and tears pouring like a faucet from Billy's eyes.

Stomach seemed to turn as she reached back for the knob on the television, turning it on and changing the channels until she found MTV.

Billy sighed again, slouching some and repeating the same, annoying habit of smacking those lips as he sucked his teeth and let a low whistle fall to a half-naked woman who was strutting up on stage. Eyes began to blur with anger, disgust and tears.

Thankfully, the doorbell saved Billy from seeing them and moving quickly from the couch, hands grabbed for her parent's checkbook as bare feet mad their way towards the door. Pizza. Also Billy's idea even though she wasn't at all hungry.

The door opened and instead of a pimply-faced boy wearing a stripped shirt and red cap upon his head, baring an arm-full of hot cheese and pepperoni, Lindsey stood shocked to find…

"Paul!"

Though, not as she or anyone would remember him. Instead of a six-foot nothing, standing in ragged jeans, a dirty tank top and with that same filth along his body and in his hair, the kid had grown into his clothing and into a face that both melted her heart and tore it wide open with a single stare.

He seemed almost older in a way she couldn't quite describe. Maybe it was the graze of blonde stubble upon his face or those eyes that continued to twist and turn her heart, causing deep tremors to rise along her spine.

But it couldn't be Paul!

"You… they said on the news that you were…" she stuttered, trying to find the word.

"Dead?" he finished for her.

She could barely manage a nod as feet began to step backwards, unconsciously allowing the man inside.

His grin made her want to run and throw herself at his feet. "They're right."

Breath was caught somewhere in her throat. She wanted to scream, to call out for Billy or turn and try to escape. But more than ever, she wished she had never gone into the boys bathroom that day and allowed Paul to give her that single kiss.

Back tensed as it pressed against the wall, feeling a cold sweat break out over her body as that lupine smile lit his face once again.

"So how about that date?"

The darkness swarmed around her before she managed to reply.

**End.**

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**Hey, I just want to thank everyone who posted reviews and comments on this story. Your thoughts were really helpful and encouraging and I really enjoyed reading them.**

**Keep an eye out for my next story.**


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